UNIVERSITY 


GOLD  AND  IRON 


BOOKS  BY 
JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 

GOLD   AND   IRON 

THE    THREE    BLACK    PENNYS 

MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

THE   LAY   ANTHONY 


GOLD  AND  IRON 


By 
JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  'A'  KNOPF 

MCMXVIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

Publishtd,  April,  1913 


PRINTED    IX    THE    UXITED    STATES    OF   AMERICA 


H545* 


M8099G9 


CONTENTS 

Page 
Wild  Oranges      .        .        .11 

Tubal  Cain          .        .        .111 
The  Dark  Fleece  227 


WILD  ORANGES 


THE  ketch  drifted  into  the  serene  inclosure  of  the 
bay  as  silently  as  the  reflections  moving  over 
the  mirrorlike  surface  of  the  water.     Beyond  a 
low  arm  of  land  that  hid  the  sea  the  western  sky  was  a 
single,  clear  yellow;  farther  on  the  left  the  pale,  incal 
culably  old  limbs  of  cypress,  their  roots  bare,  were  hung 
with  gathering  shadows  as  delicate  as  their  own  faint  foli 
age.     The  stillness  wa's  emphasized  by  the  ceaseless  mur 
mur  of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  far,  seaward  bars. 

John  Woolfolk  brought  the  ketch  up  where  he  intended 
to  anchor  and  called  to  the  stooping,  white-clad  figure  in 
the  bow:  "Let  go!  "  There  was  an  answering  splash, 
a  sudden  rasp  of  hawser,  the  booms  swung  idle,  and  the 
yacht  imperceptibly  settled  into  her  berth.  The  wheel 
turned  impotently;  and,  absent-minded,  John  Woolfolk 
locked  it.  He  dropped  his  long  form  on  a  near-by,  carpet- 
covered  folding  chair.  He  was  tired.  His  sailor,  Poul 
Halvard,  moved  about  with  a  noiseless  and  swift  efficiency; 
he  rolled  and  cased  the  jib,  and  then,  with  a  handful  of 
canvas  stops,  secured  and  covered  the  mainsail  and  pro- 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

ceeded  aft  to  the  jigger.  Unlike  Woolfolk,  Halvard  was 
short  — a  square  figure  with  a  smooth,  deep-tanned  counte 
nance,  colorless  and  steady,  pale  blue  eyes.  His  mouth 
closed  so  tightly  that  it  appeared  immovable,  as  if  it  had 
been  carved  from  some  obdurate  material  that  opened  for 
the  necessities  of  neither  speech  nor  sustenance. 

Tall  John  Woolfolk  was  darkly  tanned,  too,  and  had  a 
grey  gaze,  by  turns  sharply  focused  with  bright  black 
pupils  and  blankly  introspective.  He  was  garbed  in  white 
flannels,  with  bare  ankles  and  sandals,  and  an  old,  collar- 
less  silk  shirt,  with  sleeves  rolled  back  on  virile  arms  in 
congruously  tattooed  with  gauzy  green  cicadas. 

He  stayed  motionless  while  Halvard  put  the  yacht  in 
order  for  the  night.  The  day's  passage  through  twisting 
inland  waterways,  the  hazard  of  the  tides  on  shifting 
flats,  the  continual  concentration  on  details  at  once  trivial 
and  highly  necessary,  had  been  more  wearing  than  the 
cyclone  the  ketch  had  weathered  off  Barbuda  the  year  be 
fore.  They  had  been  landbound  since  dawn;  and  all 
day  John  Woolfolk's  instinct  had  revolted  against  the 
fields  and  wooded  points,  turning  toward  the  open  sea. 

Halvard  disappeared  into  the  cabin;  and,  soon  after,  a 
faint,  hot  air,  the  smell  of  scorched  metal,  announced  the 
lighting  of  the  vapor  stove,  the  preparations  for  supper. 
Not  a  breath  stirred  the  surface  of  the  bay.  The  water, 
as  clear  and  hardly  darker  than  the  darkening  air,  lay 
like  a  great  amethyst  clasped  by  its  dim  corals  and  the 
arm  of  the  land.  The  glossy  foliage  that,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  a  small  silver  beach,  choked  the  shore  might 
have  been  stamped  from  metal.  It  was,  John  Woolfolk 
suddenly  thought,  amazingly  still.  The  atmosphere,  too, 

[12] 


WILD    ORANGES 

was  peculiarly  heavy,  languorous.  It  was  laden  with  the 
scents  of  exotic,  flowering  trees;  he  recognized  the  smooth, 
heavy  odor  of  oleanders  and  the  clearer,  higher  breath  of 
orange  blossoms. 

He  was  idly  surprised  at  the  latter;  he  had  not  known 
that  orange  groves  had  been  planted  and  survived  in  Geor 
gia.  Woolfolk  gazed  more  attentively  at  the  shore,  and 
made  out,  back  of  the  luxuriant  tangle,  the  broad  white 
facade  of  a  dwelling.  A  pair  of  marine  glasses  lay  on  the 
deck  at  his  hand;  and,  adjusting  them,  he  surveyed  the 
face  of  a  distinguished  ruin.  The  windows  on  the  stained 
wall  were  broken  in  —  they  resembled  the  blank  eyes  of  the 
dead;  storms  had  battered  loose  the  neglected  roof,  leaving 
a  corner  open  to  sun  and  rain;  he  could  see  through  the 
foliage  lower  down  great  columns  fallen  about  a  sweeping 
portico. 

The  house  was  deserted,  he  was  certain  of  that  —  the 
melancholy  wreckage  of  a  vanished  and  resplendent  time. 
Its  small  principality,  flourishing  when  commerce  and 
communication  had  gone  by  water,  was  one  of  the  innum 
erable  victims  of  progress  and  of  the  concentration  of  effort 
into  huge  impersonalities.  He  thought  he  could  trace 
other  even  more  complete  ruins,  but  his  interest  waned. 
He  laid  the  glasses  back  upon  the  deck.  The  choked 
bubble  of  boiling  water  sounded  from  the  cabin,  mingled 
with  the  irregular  sputter  of  cooking  fat  and  the  clinking 
of  plates  and  silver  as  Halvard  set  the  table.  Without, 
the  light  was  fading  swiftly;  the  wavering  cry  of  an  owl 
quivered  from  the  cypress  across  the  water,  and  the  western 
sky  changed  from  paler  yellow  to  green.  Woolfolk  moved 
abruptly,  and,  securing  a  bucket  to  the  handle  of  which  a 

[13] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

short  rope  had  been  spliced  and  finished  with  an  orna 
mental  Turk's-head,  he  swung  it  overboard  and  brought 
it  up  half  full.  In  the  darkness  of  the  bucket  the  water 
shone  with  a  faint  phosphorescence.  Then  from  a  basin 
he  lathered  his  hands  with  a  thick,  pinkish  paste,  washed 
his  face,  and  started  toward  the  cabin. 

He  was  already  in  the  companionway  when,  glancing 
across  the  still  surface  of  the  bay,  he  saw  a  swirl  moving 
into  view  about  a  small  point.  He  thought  at  first  that  it 
was  a  fish,  but  the  next  moment  saw  the  white,  graceful 
silhouette  of  an  arm.  It  was  a  woman  swimming.  John 
Wool  folk  could  now  plainly  make  out  the  free,  solid  mass 
of  her  hair,  the  round,  smoothly  turning  shoulder.  She 
was  swimming  with  deliberate  ease,  with  a  long,  single 
overarm  stroke;  and  it  was  evident  that  she  had  not  seen 
the  ketch.  Wool  folk  stood,  his  gaze  level  with  the  cabin 
top,  watching  her  assured  progress.  She  turned  again, 
moving  out  from  the  shore,  then  suddenly  stopped. 
Now,  he  realized,  she  saw  him. 

The  swimmer  hung  motionless  for  a  breath;  then,  with 
a  strong,  sinuous  drive,  she  whirled  about  and  made  swiftly 
for  the  point  of  land.  She  was  visible  for  a  short  space, 
low  in  the  water,  her  hair  wavering  in  the  clear  flood,  and 
then  disappeared  abruptly  behind  the  point,  leaving  behind 
—  a  last,  vanishing  trace  of  her  silent  passage  —  a  smooth, 
subsiding  wake  on  the  surface  of  the  bay. 

John  Woolfolk  mechanically  descended  the  three  short 
steps  to  the  cabin.  There  had  been  something  extraordi 
nary  in  the  woman's  brief  appearance  out  of  the  odorous 
tangle  of  the  shore,  with  its  ruined  habitation.  It  had 
caught  him  unprepared,  in  a  moment  of  half  weary  relaxa- 

[14] 


WILD    ORANGES 

tion,  and  his  imagination  responded  with  a  faint  question 
to  which  it  had  been  long  unaccustomed.  But  Halvard, 
in  crisp  white,  standing  back  of  the  steaming  supper 
viands,  brought  his  thoughts  again  to  the  day's  familiar 
routine. 

The  cabin  was  divided  through  its  forward  half  by  the 
centerboard  casing,  and  against  it  a  swinging  table  had 
been  elevated,  an  immaculate  cover  laid,  and  the  yacht's 
china,  marked  in  cobalt  with  the  name  "  Gar,"  placed  in 
a  polished  and  formal  order.  Halvard's  service  from  the 
stove  to  the  table  was  as  silent  and  skillful  as  his  housing 
of  the  sails;  he  replaced  the  hot  dishes  with  cold,  and  pro 
vided  a  glass  bowl  of  translucent  preserved  figs. 

Supper  at  an  end,  Woolfolk  rolled  a  cigarette  from 
shag  that  resembled  coarse  black  tea  and  returned  to 
the  deck.  Night  had  fallen  on  the  shore,  but  the  water 
still  held  a  pale  light;  in  the  east  the  sky  was  filled  with 
an  increasing,  cold  radiance.  It  was  the  moon,  rising 
swiftly  above  the  flat  land.  The  moonlight  grew  in 
intensity,  casting  inky  shadows  of  the  spars  and  cordage 
across  the  deck,  making  the  light  in  the  cabin  a  reddish 
blur  by  contrast.  The  icy  flood  swept  over  the  land, 
bringing  out  with  a  new  emphasis  the  close,  glossy  foliage 
and  broken  facade  —  it  appeared  unreal,  portentous. 
The  odors  of  the  flowers,  of  the  orange  blossoms,  un 
coiled  in  heavy,  palpable  waves  across  the  water,  accom 
panied  by  the  owl's  fluctuating  cry.  The  sense  of  immi 
nence  increased,  of  a  genius  loci  unguessed  and  troublous, 
vaguely  threatening  in  the  perfumed  dark. 

[15] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

II 

John  Woolfolk  had  said  nothing  to  Halvard  of  the 
woman  he  had  seen  swimming  in  the  bay.  He  was  con 
scious  of  no  particular  reason  for  remaining  silent  about 
her;  but  the  thing  had  become  invested  with  a  glamour 
that,  he  felt,  would  be  destroyed  by  commonplace  discus 
sion.  He  had  no  personal  interest  in  the  episode,  he  was 
careful  to  add.  Interests  of  that  sort,  serving  to  connect 
him  with  the  world,  with  society,  with  women,  had  totally 
disappeared  from  his  life.  He  rolled  and  lighted  a  fresh 
cigarette,  and  in  the  minute  orange  spurt  of  the  match  his 
mouth  was  set,  forbidding,  his  gaze  somber. 

The  unexpected  appearance  on  the  glassy  water  had 
merely  started  into  being  a  slight,  fanciful  curiosity.  The 
women  of  that  coast  did  not  commonly  swim  at  dusk  in 
their  bays;  such  simplicity  obtained  now  only  in  the 
reaches  of  the  highest  civilization.  There  were,  he  knew, 
no  hunting  camps  here,  and  the  local  inhabitants  were 
mere  sodden  squatters.  A  chart  lay  in  its  flat  canvas  case 
by  the  wheel;  and,  in  the  crystal  flood  of  the  moon,  he 
easily  reaffirmed  from  it  his  knowledge  of  the  yacht's 
position.  Nothing  could  be  close  by  but  scattered  huts  and 
such  wreckage  as  that  looming  palely  above  the  oleanders. 

Yet  a  woman  had  unquestionably  appeared  swimming 
from  behind  the  point  of  land  off  the  bow  of  the  Gar.  The 
women  native  to  the  locality,  and  the  men,  too,  were 
fanatical  in  the  avoidance  of  any  unnecessary  exterior 
application  of  water.  His  thoughts  moved  in  a  monoto 
nous  circle,  while  the  enveloping  radiance  constantly  in 
creased.  It  became  as  light  as  a  species  of  unnatural  day, 

[16] 


WILD    ORANGES 

where  every  leaf  was  clearly  revealed  but  robbed  of  all 
color  and  familiar  meaning. 

He  grew  restless,  and  rose,  making  his  way  forward 
about  the  narrow  deck-space  outside  the  cabin.  Halvard 
was  seated  on  a  coil  of  rope  beside  the  windlass  and  stood 
erect  as  Woolfolk  approached.  The  sailor  was  smoking 
a  short  pipe,  and  the  bowl  made  a  crimson  spark  in  his 
thick,  powerful  hand.  John  Woolfolk  fingered  the  wood 
surface  of  the  windlass  bitts  and  found  it  rough  and 
gummy.  Halvard  said  instinctively: 

"  I'd  better  start  scraping  the  mahogany  tomorrow,  it's 
getting  white." 

Woolfolk  nodded.  Halvard  was  a  good  man.  He  had 
the  valuable  quality  of  commonly  anticipating  spoken 
desires.  He  was  a  Norwegian,  out  of  the  Lofoden  Islands, 
where  sailors  are  surpassingly  schooled  in  the  Arctic  seas. 
Poul  Halvard,  so  far  as  Woolfolk  could  discover,  was 
impervious  to  cold,  to  fatigue,  to  the  insidious  whispering 
of  mere  flesh.  He  was  a  man  without  temptation,  with  an 
untroubled  allegiance  to  a  duty  that  involved  an  endless, 
exacting  labor;  and  for  those  reasons  he  was  austere, 
withdrawn  from  the  community  of  more  fragile  and 
sympathetic  natures.  At  times  his  inflexible  integrity 
oppressed  John  Woolfolk.  Halvard,  he  thought,  was  a 
difficult  man  to  live  up  to. 

He  turned  and  absently  surveyed  the  land.  His  rest 
lessness  increased.  He  felt  a  strong  desire  for  a  larger 
freedom  of  space  than  that  offered  by  the  Gar,  and  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  go  ashore  in  the  tender.  He 
moved  aft  with  this  idea  growing  to  a  determination. 
In  the  cabin,  on  the  shelf  above  the  berths  built  against 

[17] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

the  sides  of  the  ketch,  he  found  an  old  blue  flannel  coat, 
with  crossed  squash  rackets  and  a  monogram  embroidered 
in  yellow  on  the  breast  pocket.  Slipping  it  on  he  dropped 
over  the  stern  of  the  tender. 

Halvard  came  instantly  aft,  but  Wool  folk  declined  the 
mutely  offered  service.  The  oars  made  a  silken  swish  in 
the  still  bay  as  he  pulled  away  from  the  yacht.  The 
latter's  riding  light,  swung  on  the  forestay,  hung  without 
a  quiver,  like  a  fixed  yellow  star.  He  looked  once  over 
his  shoulder,  and  then  the  bow  of  the  tender  ran  with  a 
soft  shock  upon  the  beach.  Wool  folk  bedded  the  anchor 
in  the  sand  and  then  stood  gazing  curiously  before  him. 

On  his  right  a  thicket  of  oleanders  drenched  the  air  with 
the  perfume  of  their  heavy  poisonous  flowering,  and 
behind  them  a  rough  clearing  of  saw  grass  swept  up  to  the 
debris  of  the  fallen  portico.  To  the  left,  beyond  the  black 
hole  of  a  decaying  well,  rose  the  walls  of  a  second  brick 
building,  smaller  than  the  dwelling.  A  few  shreds  of 
rotten  porch  clung  to  its  face,  while  the  moonlight,  pour 
ing  through  a  break  above,  fell  in  a  livid  bar  across  the 
obscurity  of  a  high,  single  chamber. 

Between  the  crumbling  piles  there  was  the  faint  trace 
of  a  footway,  and  Woolfolk  advanced  to  where,  inside  a 
dilapidated,  sheltering  fence,  he  came  upon  a  dark,  com 
pact  mass  of  trees  and  smelled  the  increasing  sweetness  of 
orange  blossoms.  He  struck  the  remains  of  a  board  path, 
and  progressed  with  the  cold,  waxy  leaves  of  the  orange 
trees  brushing  his  face.  There  was,  he  saw  in  the  grey 
brightness,  ripe  fruit  among  the  branches,  and  he  mechani 
cally  picked  an  orange  and  then  another.  They  were 
small  but  heavy,  and  had  fine  skins. 

[18] 


WILD     ORANGES 

He  tore  one  open  and  put  a  section  in  his  mouth.  It 
was  at  first  surprisingly  bitter,  and  he  involuntarily  flung 
away  what  remained  in  his  hand.  But  after  a  moment  he 
found  that  the  oranges  possessed  a  pungency  and  zestful 
flavor  that  he  had  tasted  in  no  others.  Then  he  saw, 
directly  before  him,  a  pale,  rectangular  light  which  he 
recognized  as  the  opened  door  of  a  habitation. 


Ill 

He  advanced  more  slowly,  and  a  low,  irregular  house 
detached  itself  from  the  tangled  growth  pressing  upon  it 
from  all  sides.  The  doorway,  dimly  lighted  by  an  in 
visible  lamp  from  within,  was  now  near  by;  and  John 
Woolfolk  saw  a  shape  cross  it  so  swiftly  furtive  that  it  was 
gone  before  he  realized  that  a  man  had  vanished  into  the 
hall.  There  was  a  second  stir  on  the  small,  covered 
portico,  and  the  slender,  white-clad  figure  of  a  woman 
moved  uncertainly  forward.  He  stopped  just  at  the 
moment  in  which  a  low,  clear  voice  queried:  "  What  do 
you  want?  " 

The  question  was  directly  put,  and  yet  the  tone  held 
an  inexplicably  acute  apprehension.  The  woman's  voice 
bore  a  delicate,  bell-like  shiver  of  fear. 

"  Nothing,"  he  hastened  to  assure  her.  "  When  I  came 
ashore  I  thought  no  one  was  living  here." 

"  You're  from  the  white  boat  that  sailed  in  at  sunset?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  am  returning  immediately." 

"  It   was   like   magic !  "    she   continued.     "  Suddenly, 

without  a  sound,  you  were  in  the  bay,  like  a  great  gull." 

[19] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

Even  this  quiet  statement  bore  the  shadowy  alarm.  John 
Woolfolk  realized  that  it  had  not  been  caused  by  his  ab 
rupt  appearance;  the  faint  accent  of  dread  was  fixed  in 
the  illusive  form  before  him. 

"  I  have  robbed  you  too,"  he  continued  in  a  lighter 
tone.  "  Your  oranges  are  in  my  pocket." 

"  You  won't  like  them,"  she  returned  indirectly; 
"  they've  run  wild.  We  can't  sell  them." 

"  They  have  a  distinct  appeal  of  their  own,"  he  assured 
her.  "  I  should  be  glad  to  have  some  on  the  Gar." 

"  All  you  want." 

"  My  man  will  get  them  and  pay  you." 

"  Please  don't "  She  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  a 

sudden  consideration  had  interrupted  a  liberal  courtesy. 
When  she  spoke  again  the  apprehension,  Woolfolk  thought, 
had  increased  to  palpable  fright.  "  We  would  charge  you 
very  little,"  she  said  finally.  "  Nicholas  attends  to  that." 

Silence  fell  upon  them.  She  stood  with  her  hand  rest 
ing  lightly  against  an  upright  support,  coldly  revealed  by 
the  moon.  John  Woolfolk  saw  that,  although  slight,  her 
body  was  delicately  full,  and  that  her  shoulders  held  a 
droop  which  somehow  resembled  the  shadow  on  her  voice. 
She  bore  an  unmistakable  refinement  of  being  strange  in 
that  locality  of  meager  humanity.  Her  speech  totally 
lacked  the  half -intelligible,  loose  slurring  of  the  natives. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,"  she  at  last  broke  the  silence. 
"  My  father  was  here  when  you  came  up,  but  he  went  in. 
Strangers  disturb  him." 

Woolfolk  moved  to  the  portico,  elevated  above  the 
ground,  where  he  found  a  momentary  place.  The  woman 
sank  back  into  a  low  chair.  The  stillness  gathered  about 

[20] 


WILD     ORANGES 

them  once  more,  and  he  mechanically  rolled  a  cigarette. 
Her  white  dress,  although  simply  and  rudely  made,  gained 
distinction  from  her  free,  graceful  lines;  her  feet,  in  black, 
heelless  slippers,  were  narrow  and  sharply  cut.  He  saw 
that  her  countenance  bore  an  even  pallor  on  which  her 
eyes  made  shadows  like  those  on  marble. 

These  details,  unremarkable  in  themselves,  were  charged 
with  a  peculiar  intensity.  John  Woolfolk,  who  long  ago 
had  put  such  considerations  from  his  existence,  was  yet 
clearly  conscious  of  the  disturbing  quality  of  her  person. 
She  possessed  the  indefinable  property  of  charm.  Such 
women,  he  knew,  stirred  life  profoundly,  reanimating  it 
with  extraordinary  efforts  and  desires.  Their  mere  pas 
sage,  the  pressure  of  their  fingers,  were  more  imperative 
than  the  life-service  of  others;  the  flutter  of  their  breath 
could  be  more  tyrannical  that  the  most  poignant  memories 
and  vows. 

John  Woolfolk  thought  these  things  in  a  manner  abso 
lutely  detached.  They  touched  him  at  no  point.  Never 
theless,  the  faint  curiosity  stirred  within  him  remained. 
The  house  unexpectedly  inhabited  behind  the  ruined 
fagade  on  the  water,  the  magnetic  woman  with  the  echo 
of  apprehension  in  her  cultivated  voice,  the  parent,  so 
easily  disturbed,  even  the  mere  name  "  Nicholas,"  all  held 
a  marked  potentiality  of  emotion;  they  were  set  in  an 
almost  hysterical  key. 

He  was  suddenly  conscious  of  the  odorous  pressure  of 
the  flowering  trees,  of  the  orange  blossoms  and  the 
oleanders.  It  was  stifling.  He  felt  that  he  must  escape 
at  once,  from  all  the  cloying  and  insidious  scents  of  the 
earth,  to  the  open  and  sterile  sea.  The  thick  tangle  in 

[21] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

the  colorless  light  of  the  moon,  the  dimmer  portico  with  its 
enigmatic  figure,  were  a  cunning  essence  of  the  existence 
he  had  fled.  Life's  traps  were  set  with  just  such  treach 
eries —  perfume  and  mystery  and  the  veiled  lure  of  sex. 

He  rose  with  an  uncouth  abruptness,  a  meager  common 
place,  and  almost  fled  over  the  path  to  the  beach,  toward 
the  refuge,  the  release,  of  the  Gar. 

John  Woolfolk  woke  at  dawn.  A  thin,  bluish  light 
filled  the  cabin;  above,  Halvard  was  washing  the  deck. 
The  latter  was  vigorously  swabbing  the  cockpit  when 
Woolfolk  appeared,  but  he  paused. 

"  Perhaps,"  the  sailor  said,  "  you  will  stay  here  for  a 
day  or  two.  I'd  like  to  unship  the  propeller,  and  there's 
the  scraping.  It's  a  good  anchorage." 

"  We're  moving  on  south,"  Woolfolk  replied,  stating 
the  determination  with  which  he  had  retired.  Then  the 
full  sense  of  Halvard's  words  penetrated  his  waking  mind. 
The  propeller,  he  knew,  had  not  opened  properly  for  the 
week  gone;  and  the  anchorage  was  undoubtedly  good. 
This  was  the  last  place,  before  entering  the  Florida  passes, 
for  whatever  minor  adjustments  were  necessary. 

The  matted  shore,  flushed  with  the  rising  sun,  was 
starred  with  white  and  deep  pink  blooms;  a  ray  gilded 
the  blank  wall  of  the  deserted  mansion.  The  scent  of  the 
orange  blossoms  was  not  as  insistent  as  it  had  been  on  the 
previous  evening.  The  land  appeared  normal;  it  exhib 
ited  none  of  the  disturbing  influence  of  which  he  had  been 
first  conscious.  Last  night's  mood  seemed  inflated. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  he  altered  his  pronouncement; 
"  we'll  put  the  Gar  in  order  here.  People  are  living  be 
hind  the  grove,  and  there'll  be  water." 

[22] 


WILD     ORANGES 

He  had,  for  breakfast,  oranges  brought  down  the  coast, 
and  he  was  surprised  at  their  sudden  insipidity.  They 
were  little  better  than  faintly  sweetened  water.  He  turned 
and  in  the  pocket  of  his  flannel  coat  found  one  of  those  he 
had  picked  the  night  before.  It  was  as  keen  as  a  knife; 
the  peculiar  aroma  had,  without  doubt,  robbed  him  of  all 
desire  for  the  cultivated  oranges  of  commerce. 

Halvard  was  in  the  tender,  under  the  stern  of  the  ketch, 
when  it  occurred  to  John  Woolfolk  that  it  would  be  wise 
to  go  ashore  and  establish  his  assertion  of  an  adequate 
water  supply.  He  explained  this  briefly  to  the  sailor,  who 
put  him  on  the  small  shingle  of  sand.  There  he  turned 
to  the  right,  moving  idly  in  a  direction  away  from  that 
he  had  taken  before. 

He  crossed  the  corner  of  the  demolished  abode,  made 
his  way  through  a  press  of  sere  cabbage  palmettos  and 
emerged  suddenly  on  the  blinding  expanse  of  the  sea.  The 
limpid  water  lay  in  a  bright  rim  over  corrugated  and 
pitted  rock,  where  shallow  ultramarine  pools  were  gardens 
of  sulphur-yellow  and  rose  anemones.  The  land  curved 
in  upon  the  left;  a  ruined  landing  extended  over  the  placid 
tide,  and,  seated  there  with  her  back  toward  him,  a  woman 
was  fishing. 

It  was,  he  saw  immediately,  the  woman  of  the  portico. 
At  the  moment  of  recognition  she  turned,  and  after  a  brief 
inspection,  slowly  waved  her  hand.  He  approached, 
crossing  the  openings  in  the  precarious  boarding  of  the 
landing,  until  he  stood  over  her.  She  said : 

"  There's  an  old  sheepshead  under  here  I've  been  after 
for  a  year.  If  you'll  be  very  still  you  can  see  him." 

She  turned  her  face  up  to  him,  and  he  saw  that  her 
[23] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

cheeks  were  without  trace  of  color.  At  the  same  time 
he  reaffirmed  all  that  he  felt  before  with  regard  to  the 
potent  quality  of  her  being.  She  had  a  lustrous  mass  of 
warm  brown  hair  twisted  into  a  loose  knot  that  had  slid 
forward  over  a  broad,  low  brow;  a  pointed  chin;  and  pale, 
disturbing  lips.  But  her  eyes  were  her  most  notable  fea 
ture —  they  were  widely  opened  and  extraordinary  in 
color;  the  only  similitude  that  occurred  to  John  Woolfolk 
was  the  grey  greenness  of  olive  leaves.  In  them  he  felt  the 
same  boding  that  had  shadowed  her  voice.  The  fleet  pas 
sage  of  her  gaze  left  an  indelible  impression  of  an  expect 
ancy  that  was  at  once  a  dread  and  a  strangely  youthful 
candor.  She  was,  he  thought,  about  thirty. 

She  wore  now  a  russet  skirt  of  thin,  coarse  texture  that, 
like  the  dress  of  the  evening,  took  a  slim  grace  from  her 
fine  body,  and  a  white  waist,  frayed  from  many  washings, 
open  upon  her  smooth,  round  throat. 

"  He's  usually  by  this  post,"  she  continued,  pointing 
down  through  the  clear  gloom  of  the  water. 

Woolfolk  lowered  himself  to  a  position  at  her  side,  his 
gaze  following  her  direction.  There,  after  a  moment,  he 
distinguished  the  black  and  white  barred  sheepshead  wa 
vering  about  the  piling.  His  companion  was  fishing  with 
a  short,  heavy  rod  from  which  time  had  dissolved  the  var 
nish,  a  crazy  brass  reel  that  complained  shrilly  whenever 
the  lead  was  raised  or  lowered,  and  a  thick,  freely  knotted 
line. 

"  You  should  have  a  leader,"  he  told  her.  "  The  old 
gentleman  can  see  your  line  too  plainly." 

There  was  a  sharp  pull,  she  rapidly  turned  the  handle 
[24] 


WILD     ORANGES 

of  the  protesting  reel,  and  drew  up  a  gasping,  bony  fish 
with  extended  red  wings. 

"  Another  robin!  "  she  cried  tragically.  "  This  is  get 
ting  serious.  Dinner,"  she  informed  him,  "  and  not  sport, 
is  my  object." 

He  looked  out  to  where  a  channel  made  a  deep  blue 
stain  through  the  paler  cerulean  of  the  sea.  The  tide,  he 
saw  from  the  piling,  was  low. 

"There  should  be  a  rockfish  in  the  pass,"  he  pro 
nounced. 

"  What  good  if  there  is?  "  she  returned.  "  I  couldn't 
possibly  throw  out  there.  And  if  I  could,  why  disturb  a 
rock  with  this?  "  She  shook  the  short  awkward  rod,  the 
knotted  line. 

He  privately  acknowledged  the  palpable  truth  of  her 
objections,  and  rose. 

"  I've  some  fishing  things  on  the  ketch,"  he  said,  moving 
away.  He  blew  shrilly  on  a  whistle  from  the  beach,  and 
Halvard  dropped  over  the  Gar's  side  into  the  tender. 

Woolfolk  was  soon  back  on  the  wharf,  stripping  the 
canvas  cover  from  the  long  cane  tip  of  a  fishing  rod  bril 
liantly  wound  with  green  and  vermilion,  and  fitting  it  into 
a  dark,  silver-capped  butt.  He  locked  a  capacious  reel 
into  place,  and,  drawing  a  thin  line  through  agate  guides, 
attached  a  glistening  steel  leader  and  chained  hook. 
Then,  adding  a  freely  swinging  lead,  he  picked  up  the 
small  mullet  that  lay  by  his  companion. 

"  Does  that  have  to  go?  "  she  demanded.  "  It's  such  a 
slim  chance  and  it  is  my  only  mullet." 

He  ruthlessly  sliced  a  piece  from  the  silvery  side;  and, 
[25] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

rising  and  switching  his  reel's  gear,  he  cast.  The  lead 
swung  far  out  across  the  water  and  fell  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  channel. 

"But  that's  dazzling!"  she  exclaimed;  "as  though 
you  had  shot  it  out  of  a  gun." 

He  tightened  the  line,  and  sat  with  the  rod  resting  in 
a  leather  socket  fastened  to  his  belt. 

"  Now,"  she  stated,  "  we  will  watch  at  the  vain  sacrifice 
of  an  only  mullet." 

The  day  was  superb,  the  sky  sparkled  like  a  great  blue 
sun;  schools  of  young  mangrove  snappers  swept  through 
the  pellucid  water.  The  woman  said: 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  and  where  are  you  going?  " 

"Cape  Cod,"  he  replied;  "and  I  am  going  to  the 
Guianas." 

"  Isn't  that  South  America?  "  she  queried.  "  I've  trav 
eled  far  —  on  maps.  Guiana,"  she  repeated  the  name 
softly.  For  a  moment  the  faint  dread  in  her  voice  changed 
to  longing.  "  I  think  I  know  all  the  beautiful  names  of 
places  on  the  earth,"  she  continued:  "Tarragona  and 
Seriphos  and  Cambodia." 

"  Some  of  them  you  have  seen?  " 

"  None,"  she  answered  simply.  "  I  was  born  here,  in 
the  house  you  know,  and  I  have  never  been  fifty  miles 
away." 

This,  he  told  himself,  was  incredible.  The  mystery  that 
surrounded  her  deepened,  stirring  more  strongly  his  im 
personal  curiosity. 

"You  are  surprised,"  she  added;  "it's  mad,  but  true. 
There  —  there  is  a  reason."  She  stopped  abruptly,  and, 
neglecting  her  fishing  rod,  sat  with  her  hands  clasped 

[26] 


WILD     ORANGES 

about  slim  knees.  She  gazed  at  him  slowly,  and  he  was 
impressed  once  more  by  the  remarkable  quality  of  her  eyes, 
grey  green  like  olive  leaves  and  strangely  young.  The 
momentary  interest  created  in  her  by  romantic  and  far 
names  faded,  gave  place  to  the  familiar  trace  of  fear. 
In  the  long  past  he  would  have  responded  immediately  to 
the  appeal  of  her  pale,  magnetic  countenance.  ...  He 
had  broken  all  connection  with  society,  with 

There  was  a  sudden,  impressive  jerk  at  his  line,  the 
rod  instantly  assumed  the  shape  of  a  bent  bow,  and,  as  he 
rose,  the  reel  handle  was  lost  in  a  grey  blur  and  the  line 
streaked  out  through  the  dipping  tip.  His  companion 
hung  breathless  at  his  shoulder. 

"  He'll  take  all  your  line,"  she  lamented  as  the  fish 
continued  his  straight,  outward  course,  while  Woolfolk 
kept  an  even  pressure  on  the  rod. 

"  A  hundred  yards,"  he  announced  as  he  felt  a  threaded 
mark  wheel  from  under  his  thumb.  Then :  "  A  hundred 
and  fifty.  I'm  afraid  it's  a  shark."  As  he  spoke  the  fish 
leaped  clear  of  the  water,  a  spot  of  molten  silver,  and  fell 
back  in  a  sparkling  blue  spray.  "  It's  a  rock,"  he  added. 
He  stopped  the  run  momentarily;  the  rod  bent  perilously 
double,  but  the  fish  halted.  Woolfolk  reeled  in  smoothly, 
but  another  rush  followed  as  strong  as  the  first.  A  long, 
equal  struggle  ensued,  the  thin  line  was  drawn  as  rigid 
as  metal,  the  rod  quivered  and  arched.  Once  the  rockfish 
was  close  enough  to  be  clearly  distinguishable  —  strongly 
built,  heavy-shouldered,  with  black  stripes  drawn  from 
gills  to  tail.  But  he  was  off  again,  with  a  short,  blunder 
ing  rush. 

"  If  you  will  hold  the  rod,"  Woolfolk  directed  his  com- 
[27] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

panion,  "  I'll  gaff  him."  She  took  the  rod  while  he  bent 
over  the  wharf's  side.  The  fish,  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  half  turned;  and,  striking  the  gaff  through  the  jaw, 
Woolfolk  swung  him  up  on  the  boarding. 

"  There,"  he  pronounced,  "  are  several  dinners.  I'll 
carry  him  to  your  kitchen." 

"Nicholas  would  do  it,  but  he's  away,"  she  told  him; 
"  and  my  father  is  not  strong  enough.  That's  a  leviathan." 

John  Woolfolk  placed  a  handle  through  the  rockfish's 
gills,  and,  carrying  it  with  an  obvious  effort,  he  followed 
her  over  a  narrow,  trampled  path  through  the  rasped 
palmettos.  They  approached  the  dwelling  from  behind 
the  orange  grove;  and,  coming  suddenly  to  the  porch,  sur 
prised  an  incredibly  thin,  grey  man  in  the  act  of  lighting  a 
small  stone  pipe  with  a  reed  stem.  The  latter  was  sitting, 
but  when  he  saw  Woolfolk  he  started  sharply  to  his  feet, 
and  the  pipe  fell,  shattering  the  bowl. 

"My  father,"  the  woman  pronounced:  "  Lichfield 
Stope." 

"  Millie,"  he  stuttered  painfully,  "  you  know  —  I  — 
strangers " 

John  Woolfolk  thought,  as  he  presented  himself,  that  he 
had  never  before  seen  such  an  immaterial  living  figure. 
Lichfield  Stope  was  like  the  shadow  of  a  man  draped  with 
unsubstantial,  dusty  linen.  Into  his  waxen  face  beat  a 
pale  infusion  of  blood,  as  if  a  diluted  wine  had  been 
poured  into  a  semi-opaque  goblet;  his  sunken  lips  puffed 
out  and  collapsed;  his  fingers,  dust-colored  like  his  garb, 
opened  and  shut  with  a  rapid,  mechanical  rigidity. 

"  Father,"  Millie  Stope  remonstrated,  "  you  must  man 
age  yourself  better.  You  know  I  wouldn't  bring  any  one 

[28] 


WILD     ORANGES 

to  the  house  who  would  hurt  us.  And  see  —  we  are 
fetching  you  a  splendid  rockfish." 

The  older  man  made  a  convulsive  effort  to  regain  his 
composure. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  muttered;  "  just  so." 

The  flush  receded  from  his  indeterminate  countenance. 
Woolfolk  saw  that  he  had  a  goatee  laid  like  a  wasted  yel 
low  finger  on  his  chin,  and  that  his  hands  hung  on  wrists 
like  twisted  copper  wires  from  circular  cuffs  fastened  with 
large  mosaic  buttons. 

"  We  are  alone  here,"  he  proceeded  in  a  fluctuating 
voice,  the  voice  of  a  shadow;  "the  man  is  away.  My 

daughter  —  I "  He  grew  inaudible,  although  his 

lips  maintained  a  faint  movement. 

The  fear  that  lurked  illusively  in  the  daughter  was  in 
the  parent  magnified  to  an  appalling  panic,  an  instinctive, 
acute  agony  that  had  crushed  everything  but  a  thin,  tor 
mented  spark  of  life.  He  passed  his  hand  over  a  brow  as 
dry  as  the  spongy  limbs  of  the  cypress,  brushing  a  scant 
lock  like  dead,  bleached  moss. 

"The  fish,"  he  pronounced;  "yes  .  .  .  acceptable." 

"  If  you  will  carry  it  back  for  me,"  Millie  Stope  re 
quested;  "  we  have  no  ice;  I  must  put  it  in  water."  He 
followed  her  about  a  bay  window  with  ornamental  fretting 
that  bore  the  shreds  of  old,  variegated  paint.  He  could 
see,  amid  an  incongruous  wreckage  within,  a  dismantled 
billiard  table,  its  torn  cloth  faintly  green  beneath  a  film 
of  dust.  They  turned  and  arrived  at  the  kitchen  door. 
"There,  please."  She  indicated  a  bench  on  the  outside 
wall,  and  he  deposited  his  burden. 

"You  have  been  very  nice,"  she  told  him,  rendering 
[29] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

her  phrase  less  commonplace  by  a  glance  of  her  wide,  ap 
pealing  eyes.  "  Now,  I  suppose,  you  will  go  on  across  the 
world?" 

"  Not  tonight,"  he  replied  distantly. 

"  Perhaps,  then,  you  will  come  ashore  again.  We  see 
so  few  people.  My  father  would  benefit.  It  was  only  at 
first  —  so  suddenly;  he  was  startled." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  to  do  on  the  ketch,"  he  replied 
indirectly,  maintaining  his  retreat  from  the  slightest  ad 
vance  of  life.  "  I  came  ashore  to  discover  if  you  had  a 
large  water  supply  and  if  I  might  fill  my  casks." 

"  Rain  water,"  she  informed  him;  "  the  cistern  is  full." 

"Then  I'll  send  Halvard  to  you."  He  withdrew  a 
step,  but  paused  at  the  incivility  of  his  leaving. 

A  sudden  weariness  had  settled  over  the  shoulders  of 
Millie  Stope;  she  appeared  young  and  very  white.  Wool- 
folk  was  acutely  conscious  of  her  utter  isolation  with  the 
shivering  figure  on  the  porch,  the  unmaterialized  Nicholas. 
She  had  delicate  hands. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said,  bowing  formally.  "  And  thank 
you  for  the  fishing." 

He  whistled  sharply  for  the  tender. 

IV 

Throughout  the  afternoon,  with  a  triangular  scraping 
iron,  he  assisted  Halvard  in  removing  the  whitened  varnish 
from  the  yacht's  mahogany.  They  worked  silently,  with 
only  the  shrill  note  of  the  edges  drawing  across  the  wood, 
while  the  westering  sun  plunged  its  diagonal  rays  far 
into  the  transparent  depths  of  the  bay.  The  Gar  floated 

[30] 


WILD     ORANGES 

motionless  on  water  like  a  pale  evening  over  purple  and 
silver  flowers  threaded  by  fish  painted  vermilion  and  green 
like  parrakeets.  Inshore  the  pallid  cypresses  seemed,  as 
John  Woolfolk  watched  them,  to  twist  in  febrile  pain. 
With  the  waning  of  day  the  land  took  on  its  air  of 
unhealthy  mystery;  the  mingled,  heavy  scents  floated  out 
in  a  sickly  tide;  the  ruined  facade  glimmered  in  the  half 
light. 

Woolfolk's  thoughts  turned  back  to  the  woman  living 
in  the  miasma  of  perfume  and  secret  fear.  He  heard 
again  her  wistful  voice  pronounce  the  names  of  far  places, 
of  Tarragona  and  Seriphos,  investing  them  with  the  accent 
of  an  intense  hopeless  desire.  He  thought  of  the  inexplic 
able  place  of  her  birth  and  of  the  riven,  unsubstantial 
figure  of  the  man  with  the  blood  pulsing  into  his  ocherous 
face.  Some  old,  profound  error  or  calamity  had  laid  its 
blight  upon  the  latter,  he  was  certain ;  but  the  most  lament 
able  inheritance  was  not  sufficient  to  account  for  the  acute 
apprehension  in  his  daughter's  tones.  This  was  different 
in  kind  from  the  spiritual  collapse  of  the  aging  man.  It 
was  actual,  he  realized  that,  proceeding  —  in  part  at  least 
—  from  without. 

He  wondered,  scraping  with  difficulty  the  underturning 
of  a  cathead,  if  whatever  dark  tide  was  centered  above  her 
would,  perhaps,  descend  through  the  oleander-scented 
night  and  stifle  her  in  the  stagnant  dwelling.  He  had  a 
swift,  vividly  complete  vision  of  the  old  man  face  down 
upon  the  floor  in  a  flickering,  reddish  light. 

He  smiled  in  self-contempt  at  this  neurotic  fancy;  and, 
straightening  his  cramped  muscles,  rolled  a  cigarette.  It 
might  be  that  the  years  he  had  spent  virtually  alone  on 

[31] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

the  silence  of  various  waters  had  affected  his  brain.  Hal- 
vard's  broad,  concentrated  countenance,  the  steady,  grave 
gaze  and  determined  mouth,  cleared  Woolfolk's  mind  of 
its  phantoms.  He  moved  to  the  cockpit  and  from  there 
said: 

"  That  will  do  for  today." 

Halvard  followed,  and  commenced  once  more  the  fa 
miliar,  ordered  preparations  for  supper.  John  Wool  folk, 
smoking  while  the  sky  turned  to  malachite,  became  sharply 
aware  of  the  unthinkable  monotony  of  the  universal  course, 
of  the  centuries  wheeling  in  dull  succession  into  infinity. 
Life  seemed  to  him  no  more  varied  than  the  wire  drum 
in  which  squirrels  raced  nowhere.  His  own  lot,  he  told 
himself  grimly,  was  no  worse  than  another.  Existence 
was  all  of  the  same  drab  piece.  It  had  seemed  gay  enough 
when  he  was  young,  worked  with  gold  and  crimson 
threads,  and  then 

His  thoughts  were  broken  by  Halvard's  appearance  in 
the  companionway,  and  he  descended  to  his  solitary  supper 
in  the  contracted,  still  cabin. 

Again  on  deck  his  sense  of  the  monotony  of  life  trebled. 
He  had  been  cruising  now  about  the  edges  of  continents 
for  twelve  years.  For  twelve  years  he  had  taken  no  part 
in  the  existence  of  the  cities  he  had  passed  —  as  often  as 
possible  without  stopping  —  and  of  the  villages  gathered 
invitingly  under  their  canopies  of  trees.  He  was  — 
yes,  he  must  be  —  forty-six.  Life  was  passing  away; 
well,  let  it  —  worthless. 

The  growing  radiance  of  the  moon  glimmered  across  the 
water  and  folded  the  land  in  a  gossamer  veil.  The  same 
uneasiness,  the  inchoate  desire  to  go  ashore  that  had  seized 

[32] 


WILD    ORANGES 

upon  him  the  night  before,  reasserted  its  influence.  The 
face  of  Millie  Stope  floated  about  him  like  a  magic  gar 
denia  in  the  night  of  the  matted  trees.  He  resisted  the 
pressure  longer  than  before;  but  in  the  end  he  was  seated 
in  the  tender,  pulling  toward  the  beach. 

He  entered  the  orange  grove  and  slowly  approached  the 
house  beyond.  Millie  Stope  advanced  with  a  quick  wel 
come. 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said  simply.  "  Nicholas  is  back.  The 
fish  weighed " 

"  I  think  I'd  better  not  know,"  he  interrupted.  "  I 
might  be  tempted  to  mention  it  in  the  future,  when  it 
would  take  on  the  historic  suspicion  of  the  fish  story." 

"  But  it  was  imposing,"  she  protested.  "  Let's  go  to 
the  sea;  it's  so  limitless  in  the  moonlight." 

He  followed  her  over  the  path  to  where  the  remains  of 
the  wharf  projected  into  a  sea  as  black,  and  as  solid  ap 
parently,  as  ebony,  and  across  which  the  moon  flung  a 
narrow  way  like  a  chalk  mark.  Millie  Stope  seated  her 
self  on  the  boarding  and  he  found  a  place  near  by.  She 
leaned  forward,  with  her  arms  propped  up  and  her  chin 
couched  on  her  palms.  Her  potency  increased  rather  than 
diminished  with  association;  her  skin  had  a  rare  texture; 
her  movements,  the  turn  of  the  wrists,  were  distinguished. 
He  wondered  again  at  the  strangeness  of  her  situation. 

She  looked  about  suddenly  and  surprised  his  palpable 
questioning. 

"  You  are  puzzled,"  she  pronounced.  "  Perhaps  you 
are  setting  me  in  the  middle  of  romance.  Please  dcn't! 

Nothing  you  might  guess "  She  broke  off  abruptly, 

returned  to  her  former  pose.  "  And  yet,"  she  added  pres- 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

ently,  "  I  have  a  perverse  desire  to  talk  about  myself. 
It's  perverse  because,  although  you  are  a  little  curious, 
you  have  no  real  interest  in  what  I  might  say.  There  is 
something  about  you  like  —  yes,  like  the  cast-iron  dog 
that  used  to  stand  in  our  lawn.  It  rusted  away,  cold  to 
the  last  and  indifferent,  although  I  talked  to  it  by  the 
hour.  But  I  did  get  a  little  comfort  from  its  stolid  painted 
eye.  Perhaps  you'd  act  in  the  same  way. 

"  And  then,"  she  went  on  when  Woolfolk  had  somberly 
failed  to  comment,  "  you  are  going  away,  you  will  forget, 
it  can't  possibly  matter.  I  must  talk,  now  that  I  have 
urged  myself  this  far.  After  all,  you  needn't  have  come 
back.  But  where  shall  I  begin  ?  You  should  know  some 
thing  of  the  very  first.  That  happened  in  Virginia.  .  .  . 
My  father  didn't  go  to  war,"  she  said,  sudden  and  clear. 
She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  and  he  saw  that  it  had  lost 
its  flower-like  quality,  it  looked  as  if  it  had  been  carved 
in  stone. 

"  He  lived  in  a  small,  intensely  loyal  town,"  she  con 
tinued;  "and  when  Virginia  seceded  it  burned  with  a 
single  high  flame  of  sacrifice.  My  father  had  been  always 
a  diffident  man;  he  collected  mezzotints  and  avoided  peo 
ple.  So,  when  the  enlistment  began,  Jie  shrank  away  from 
the  crowds  and  hot  speeches,  and  the  men  went  off  without 
him.  He  lived  in  complete  retirement  then,  with  his 
prints,  in  a  town  of  women.  It  wasn't  impossible  at  first; 
he  discussed  the  situation  with  the  few  old  tradesmen  that 
remained,  and  exchanged  bows  with  the  wives  and  daugh 
ters  of  his  friends.  But  when  the  dead  commenced  to  be 
brought  in  from  the  front  it  got  worse.  Belle  Semple  — 

[34] 


WILD    ORANGES 

he  had  always  thought  her  unusually  nice  and  pretty  — 
mocked  at  him  on  the  street.  Then  one  morning  he  found 
an  apron  tied  to  the  knob  of  the  front  door. 

"  After  that  he  went  out  only  at  night.  His  servants 
had  deserted  him,  and  he  lived  by  himself  in  a  biggish, 
solemn  house.  Sometimes  the  news  of  losses  and  deaths 
would  be  shouted  through  his  windows;  once  stones  were 
thrown  in,  but  mostly  he  was  let  alone.  It  must  have  been 
frightful  in  his  empty  rooms  when  the  South  went  from 
bad  to  worse."  She  paused,  and  John  Woolfolk  could 
see,  even  in  the  obscurity,  the  slow  shudder  that  passed 
over  her. 

"  When  the  war  was  over  and  what  men  were  left  re 
turned  —  one  with  hands  gone  at  the  wrists,  another  with 
out  legs  in  a  shabby  wheelchair  —  the  life  of  the  town 
started  once  more,  but  my  father  was  forever  outside  of  it. 
Little  subscriptions  for  burials  were  made  up,  small 
schemes  for  getting  the  necessities,  but  he  was  never 
asked.  Men  spoke  to  him  again,  even  some  of  the  women. 
That  was  all. 

"  I  think  it  was  then  that  a  curious,  perpetual  dread 
fastened  on  his  mind  —  a  fear  of  the  wind  in  the  night,  of 
breaking  twigs  or  sudden  voices.  He  ordered  things  to 
be  left  on  the  steps,  and  he  would  peer  out  from  under 
the  blind  to  make  sure  that  the  walk  was  empty  before  he 
opened  the  door. 

"  You  must  realize,"  she  said  in  a  sharper  voice,  "  that 
my  father  was  not  a  pure  coward  at  first.  He  was  an 
extremely  sensitive  man  who  hated  the  rude  stir  of  living 
and  who  simply  asked  to  be  left  undisturbed  with  his  port- 

[35] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

folios.  But  life's  not  like  that.  The  war  hunted  him  out 
and  ruined  him;  it  destroyed  his  being,  just  as  it  destroyed 
the  fortunes  of  others. 

"  Then  he  began  to  think  —  it  was  absolute  fancy  — 
that  there  was  a  conspiracy  in  the  town  to  kill  him.  He 
sent  some  of  his  things  away,  got  together  what  money  he 
had,  and  one  night  left  his  home  secretly  on  foot.  He 
tramped  south  for  weeks,  living  for  a  while  in  small  place 
after  place,  until  he  reached  Georgia,  and  then  a  town 
about  fifty  miles  from  here " 

She  broke  off,  sitting  rigidly  erect,  looking  out  ever  the 
level  black  sea  with  its  shifting,  chalky  line  of  light,  and 
a  long  silence  followed.  The  antiphonal  crying  of  the 
owls  sounded  over  the  bubbling  swamp,  the  mephitic  per 
fume  hung  like  a  vapor  on  the  shore.  John  Woolfolk 
shifted  his  position. 

"  My  mother  told  me  this,"  his  companion  said  sud 
denly.  "  Father  repeated  it  over  and  over  through  the 
nights  after  they  were  married.  He  slept  only  in  snatches, 
and  would  wake  with  a  gasp  and  his  heart  almost  bursting. 
I  know  almost  nothing  about  her,  except  that  she  had  a 
brave  heart  —  or  she  would  have  gone  mad.  She  was 
English  and  had  been  a  governess.  They  met  in  the  lit 
tle  hotel  where  they  were  married.  Then  father  bought 
this  place,  and  they  came  here  to  live." 

Woolfolk  had  a  vision  of  the  tenuous  figure  of  Lich- 
field  Stope;  he  was  surprised  that  such  acute  agony  had 
left  the  slightest  trace  of  humanity;  yet  the  other,  after 
forty  years  of  torment,  still  survived  to  shudder  at  a  chance 
footfall,  the  advent  of  a  casual  and  harmless  stranger. 

This,  then,  was  by  implication  the  history  of  the  woman 
[36] 


WILD    ORANGES 

at  his  side;  it  disposed  of  the  mystery  that  had  veiled  her 
situation  here.  It  was  surprisingly  clear,  even  to  the 
subtle  influence  that,  inherited  from  her  father,  had  set  the 
shadow  of  his  own  obsession  upon  her  voice  and  eyes. 
Yet,  in  the  moment  that  she  had  been  made  explicable,  he 
recalled  the  conviction  that  the  knowledge  of  an  actual 
menace  lurked  in  her  mind;  he  had  seen  it  in  the  tension 
of  her  body,  in  the  anxiety  of  fleet,  backward  glances. 

The  latter,  he  told  himself,  might  be  merely  a  symptom 
of  mental  sickness,  a  condition  natural  to  the  influences 
under  which  she  had  been  formed.  He  tested  and  re 
jected  that  possibility  —  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  her 
absolute  sanity.  It  was  patent  in  a  hundred  details  of  her 
carriage,  in  her  mentality  as  it  had  been  revealed  in  her 
restrained,  balanced  narrative. 

There  was,  too,  the  element  of  her  mother  to  be  con 
sidered.  Millie  Stope  had  known  very  little  about  her, 
principally  the  self-evident  fact  of  the  latter's  "  brave 
heart."  It  would  have  needed  that  to  remain  steadfast 
through  the  racking  recitals  of  the  long,  waking  darks; 
to  accompany  to  this  desolate  and  lonely  refuge  the  man 
who  had  had  an  apron  tied  to  his  doorknob.  In  the 
degree  that  the  daughter  had  been  a  prey  to  the  man's  fear 
she  would  have  benefited  from  the  stiffer  qualities  of  the 
English  governess.  Life  once  more  assumed  its  enigmatic 
mask. 

His  companion  said: 

"  All  that  —  and  I  haven't  said  a  word  about  myself, 
the  real  end  of  the  soliloquy.  I'm  permanently  discour 
aged;  I  have  qualms  about  boring  you.  No,  I  shall  never 
find  another  listener  as  satisfactory  as  the  iron  dog." 

[37] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

A  light  glimmered  far  at  sea.  "  I  sit  here  a  great  deal," 
she  informed  him,  "  and  watch  the  ships,  a  thumbprint  of 
blue  smoke  at  day  and  a  spark  at  night,  going  up  and 
down  their  water  roads.  You  are  enviable  —  getting  up 
your  anchor,  sailing  where  you  like,  safe  and  free."  Her 
voice  took  on  a  passionate  intensity  that  surprised  him;  it 
was  sick  with  weariness  and  longing,  with  sudden  revolt 
from  the  pervasive  apprehension. 

"  Safe  and  free,"  he  repeated  thinly,  as  if  satirizing  the 
condition  implied  by  those  commonplace,  assuaging  words. 
He  had,  in  his  flight  from  society,  sought  simply  peace. 
John  Woolfolk  now  questioned  all  his  implied  success. 
He  had  found  the  elemental  hush  of  the  sea,  the  iron  aloof 
ness  of  rocky  and  uninhabited  coasts,  but  he  had  never 
been  able  to  still  the  dull  rebellion  within,  the  legacy  of 
the  past.  A  feeling  of  complete  failure  settled  over  him. 
His  safety  and  freedom  amounted  to  this  —  that  life  had 
broken  him  and  cast  him  aside. 

A  long,  hollow  wail  rose  from  the  land,  and  Millie 
Stope  moved  sharply. 

"  There's  Nicholas,"  she  exclaimed,  "  blowing  on  the 
conch!  They  don't  know  where  I  am;  I'd  better  go  in." 

A  small,  evident  panic  took  possession  of  her;  the  shiver 
in  her  voice  swelled. 

"  No,  don't  come,"  she  added.  "  I'll  be  quicker  with 
out  you."  She  made  her  way  over  the  wharf  to  the  shore, 
but  there  paused.  "  I  suppose  you'll  be  going  soon?  " 

"  Tomorrow  probably,"  he  answered. 

On  the  ketch  Halvard  had  gone  below  for  the  night. 
The  yacht  swayed  slightly  to  an  unseen  swell;  the  riding 
light  moved  backward  and  forward,  its  ray  flickering  over 

[38] 


WILD     ORANGES 

the  glassy  water.  John  Woolfolk  brought  his  bedding 
from  the  cabin,  and,  disposing  it  on  deck,  lay  with  his 
wakeful  dark  face  set  against  the  far,  multitudinous 
worlds. 


In  the  morning  Halvard  proposed  a  repainting  of  the 
engine. 

"The  Florida  air,"  he  said,  "eats  metal  overnight." 
And  the  ketch  remained  anchored. 

Later  in  the  day  Woolfolk  sounded  the  water  casks 
cradled  in  the  cockpit,  and,  when  they  answered  hollow, 
directed  his  man  with  regard  to  their  refilling.  They 
drained  a  cask,  Halvard  put  it  on  the  tender  and  pulled 
in  to  the  beach.  There  Woolfolk  saw  him  shoulder  the 
empty  container  and  disappear  among  the  trees. 

He  was  forward,  preparing  a  chain  hawser  for  coral 
anchorages,  when  he  saw  Halvard  tramping  shortly  back 
over  the  sand.  He  entered  the  tender,  and,  with  a  vicious 
shove,  rowed  with  a  powerful,  vindictive  sweep  toward 
the  ketch.  The  cask  evidently  had  been  left  behind.  He 
made  the  tender  fast  and  swung  aboard  with  his  notable 
agility. 

"  There's  a  damn  idiot  in  that  house,"  he  declared,  in  a 
surprising  departure  from  his  customary  detached  manner. 

"  Explain  yourself,"  Woolfolk  demanded  shortly. 

"  But  I'm  going  back  after  him,"  the  sailor  stubbornly 
proceeded.  "  I'll  turn  any  knife  out  of  his  hand."  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  laboring  under  an  intense  growing 
excitement  and  anger. 

[39] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

"  The  only  idiot's  not  on  land,"  Woolfolk  told  him. 
"  Where's  the  water  cask  you  took  ashore?  " 

"  Broken." 

"How?" 

"I'll  tell  you  fast  enough.  There  was  nobody  about 
when  I  went  up  to  the  house,  although  there  was  a  chair 
rocking  on  the  porch  as  if  a  person  had  just  left.  I 
knocked  at  the  door;  it  was  open,  and  I  was  certain  that 
I  heard  someone  inside,  but  nobody  answered.  Then  after 
a  bit  I  went  around  back.  The  kitchen  was  open,  too,  and 
no  one  in  sight.  I  saw  the  water  cistern  and  thought  I'd 
fill  up,  when  you  could  say  something  afterward.  I  did, 
and  was  rolling  the  cask  about  the  house  when  this  —  this 
loggerhead  came  out  of  the  bushes.  He  wanted  to  know 
what  I  was  getting  away  with,  and  I  explained,  but  it 
didn't  suit  him.  He  said  I  might  be  telling  facts  and 
again  I  mightn't.  I  saw  there  was  no  use  talking,  and 
started  rolling  the  cask  again;  but  he  put  his  foot  on  it, 
and  I  pushed  one  way  and  he  the  other " 

"  And  between  you,  you  stove  in  the  cask,"  Woolfolk 
interrupted. 

"  That's  it,"  Poul  Halvard  answered  concisely.  "  Then 
I  got  mad,  and  offered  to  beat  in  his  face,  but  he  had 
a  knife.  I  could  have  broken  it  out  of  his  grip  —  I've 
done  it  before  in  a  place  or  two  —  but  I  thought  I'd 
better  come  aboard  and  report  before  anything  general 
began." 

John  Woolfolk  was  momentarily  at  a  loss  to  establish 
the  identity  of  Halvard's  assailant. 

Then  he  realized  that  it  must  be  Nicholas,  whom  he 
had  never  seen,  and  who  had  blown  such  an  imperative 

[40] 


WILD     ORANGES 

summons  on  the  conch  the  night  before.  Halyard's  tem 
per  was  communicated  to  him ;  he  moved  abruptly  to  where 
the  tender  was  fastened. 

"  Put  me  ashore,"  he  directed.  He  would  make  it  clear 
that  his  man  was  not  to  be  interrupted  in  the  execution 
of  his  orders,  and  that  his  property  could  not  be  arbi 
trarily  destroyed. 

When  the  tender  ran  upon  the  beach  and  had  been  se 
cured,  Halvard  started  to  follow  him,  but  Woolfolk  waved 
him  back.  There  was  a  stir  on  the  portico  as  he  ap 
proached,  the  flitting  of  an  unsubstantial  form;  but,  has 
tening,  John  Woolfolk  arrested  Lichfield  Stope  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Morning,"  he  nodded  abruptly.  "  I  came  to  speak 
to  you  about  a  water  cask  of  mine. 

The  other  swayed  like  a  thin,  grey  column  of  smoke. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  pronounced  with  difficulty.  "  Water 
cask " 

"  It  was  broken  here  a  little  while  back." 

At  the  suggestion  of  violence  such  a  pitiable  panic  fell 
upon  the  older  man  that  Woolfolk  halted.  Lichfield 
Stope  raised  his  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  the  mere  impact 
of  the  words  themselves;  his  face  was  stained  with  the 
thin  red  tide  of  congestion. 

"  You  have  a  man  named  Nicholas,"  Woolfolk  pro 
ceeded.  "  I  should  like  to  see  him." 

The  other  made  a  gesture  as  tremulous  and  indetermi 
nate  as  his  speech  and  appeared  to  dissolve  into  the  hall. 
John  Woolfolk  stood  for  a  moment  undecided  and  then 
moved  about  the  house  toward  the  kitchen.  There,  he 
thought,  he  might  obtain  an  explanation  of  the  breaking 

[41] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

of  the  cask.  A  man  was  moving  about  within  and  came 
to  the  door  as  Wool  folk  approached. 

The  latter  told  himself  that  he  had  never  seen  .a  blanker 
countenance.  In  profile  it  showed  a  narrow  brow,  a  huge, 
drooping  nose,  a  pinched  mouth  and  insignificant  chin. 
From  the  front  the  face  of  the  man  in  the  doorway  held 
the  round,  unscored  cheeks  of  a  fat  and  sleepy  boy.  The 
eyes  were  mere  long  glimmers  of  vision  in  thick  folds  of 
flesh;  the  mouth,  upturned  at  the  corners,  lent  a  fixed, 
mechanical  smile  to  the  whole.  It  was  a  countenance  on 
which  the  passage  of  time  and  thoughts  had  left  no  mark; 
its  stolidity  had  been  moved  by  no  feeling.  His  body  was 
heavy  and  sagging.  It  possessed,  Woolfolk  recognized,  a 
considerable,  unwieldy  strength,  and  was  completely  cov 
ered  by  a  variously  spotted  and  streaked  apron. 

"  Are  you  Nicholas?  "  John  Woolfolk  demanded. 

The  other  nodded. 

"  Then,  I  take  it,  you  are  the  man  who  broke  my  water 
cask." 

"  It  was  full  of  our  water,"  Nicholas  replied  in  a  thick 
voice. 

"  That,"  said  Woolfolk,  "  I  am  not  going  to  argue  with 
you.  I  came  ashore  to  instruct  you  to  let  my  man  and 
my  property  alone." 

"  Then  leave  our  water  be." 

John  Woolfolk's  temper,  the  instinctive  arrogance  of 
men  living  apart  from  the  necessary  submissions  of  com 
munal  life,  in  positions  —  however  small  —  of  supreme 
command,  flared  through  his  body. 

"  I  told  you,"  he  repeated  shortly,  "  that  I  would  not 
discuss  the  question  of  the  water.  I  have  no  intention 

[42] 


WILD     ORANGES 

of  justifying  myself  to  you.  Remember  —  your  hands 
off." 

The  other  said  surprisingly:  "  Don't  get  me  started!  " 
A  spasm  of  emotion  made  a  faint,  passing  shade  on  his 
sodden  countenance,  his  voice  held  almost  a  note  of  appeal. 

"  Whether  you  *  start '  or  not  is  without  the  slightest 
significance,"  Woolfolk  coldly  responded. 

"  Mind,"  the  man  went  on,  "  I  spoke  first." 

A  steady  twitching  commenced  in  a  muscle  at  the  flange 
of  his  nose.  Woolfolk  was  aware  of  an  increasing  tension 
in  the  other  that  gained  a  peculiar  oppressiveness  from 
the  lack  of  any  corresponding  outward  expression.  His 
heavy,  blunt  hand  fumbled  under  the  maculate  apron;  his 
chest  heaved  with  a  sudden,  tempestuous  breathing. 
"  Don't  start  me,"  he  repeated  in  a  voice  so  blurred  that 
the  words  were  hardly  recognizable.  He  swallowed  con 
vulsively,  his  emotion  mounting  to  an  inchoate  passion, 
when  suddenly  a  change  was  evident.  He  made  a  short, 
violent  effort  to  regain  his  self-control,  his  gaze  fastened 
on  a  point  behind  Woolfolk. 

The  latter  turned  and  saw  Millie  Stope  approaching, 
her  countenance  haggard  with  fear.  "  What  has  hap 
pened  ?  "  she  cried  breathlessly  while  yet  a  little  distance 
away.  "  Tell  me  at  once " 

"  Nothing,"  Woolfolk  promptly  replied,  appalled  by  the 
agony  in  her  voice.  "  Nicholas  and  I  had  a  small  mis 
understanding.  A  triviality,"  he  added,  thinking  of  the 
other's  hand  groping  beneath  the  apron. 


[43] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 


VI 

On  the  morning  following  the  breaking  of  his  water 
cask  John  Woolfolk  saw  the  slender  figure  of  Millie  on 
the  beach.  She  waved  and  called,  her  voice  coming  thin 
and  clear  across  the  water: 

"  Are  visitors  —  encouraged?  " 

He  sent  Halvard  in  with  the  tender,  and  as  they  ap 
proached,  dropped  a  gangway  over  the  Gar's  side.  She 
stepped  lightly  down  into  the  cockpit  with  a  naive  ex 
pression  of  surprise  at  the  yacht's  immaculate  order.  The 
sails  lay  precisely  housed,  the  stays,  freshly  tarred,  glis 
tened  in  the  sun,  the  brasswork  and  newly  varnished 
mahogany  shone,  while  the  mathematically  coiled  ropes 
rested  on  a  deck  as  spotless  as  wood  could  be  scraped. 

"  Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "  it  couldn't  be  neater  if  you 
were  two  nice  old  ladies!  " 

"  I  warn  you,"  Woolfolk  replied,  "  Halvard  will  not 
regard  that  as  particularly  complimentary.  He  will  assure 
you  that  the  order  of  a  proper  yacht  is  beyond  the  most 
ambitious  dream  of  a  mere  housekeeper." 

She  laughed  as  Halvard  placed  a  chair  for  her.  She 
was,  Woolfolk  thought,  lighter  in  spirit  on  the  ketch  than 
she  had  been  on  shore;  there  was  the  faintest  imaginable 
stain  on  her  petal-like  cheeks;  her  eyes,  like  olive  leaves, 
were  almost  gay.  She  sat  with  her  slender  knees  crossed, 
her  fine  arms  held  with  hands  clasped  behind  her  head, 
and  clad  in  a  crisply  ironed,  crude  white  dress,  into  the 
band  of  which  she  had  thrust  a  spray  of  orange  blossoms. 

John  Woolfolk  was  increasingly  conscious  of  her  pe- 
[44] 


WILD     ORANGES 

culiar  charm.  Millie  Stope,  he  suddenly  realized,  was 
like  the  wild  oranges  in  the  neglected  grove  at  her  door. 
A  man  brought  in  contact  with  her  magnetic  being,  charged 
with  appealing  and  mysterious  emotions,  in  a  setting  of 
exotic  night  and  black  sea,  would  find  other  women,  the 
ordinary  concourse  of  society,  insipid  —  like  faintly 
sweetened  water. 

She  was  entirely  at  home  on  the  ketch,  sitting  against  the 
immaculate  rim  of  deck  and  the  sea.  He  resented  that 
familiarity  as  an  unwarranted  intrusion  of  the  world  he 
had  fled.  Other  people,  women  among  them,  had  un 
avoidably  crossed  his  deck,  but  they  had  been  patently 
alien,  momentary;  while  Millie,  with  her  still  delight  at 
the  yacht's  compact  comfort,  her  intuitive  comprehension 
of  its  various  details  —  the  lamps  set  in  gimbals,  the  china 
racks  and  chart  cases  slung  overhead  —  entered  at  once 
into  the  spirit  of  the  craft  that  was  John  Woolfolk's  sole 
place  of  home. 

He  was  now  disturbed  by  the  ease  with  which  she  had 
established  herself  both  in  the  yacht  and  in  his  imagina 
tion.  He  had  thought,  after  so  many  years,  to  have  de 
stroyed  all  the  bonds  which  ordinarily  connect  men  with 
life,  when  a  mere  curiosity  had  grown  into  a  tangible  in 
terest,  and  the  interest  showed  unmistakable  signs  of  be 
coming  sympathy. 

She  smiled  at  him  from  her  position  by  the  wheel;  and 
his  being  responded  with  such  an  unaccustomed,  ready 
warmth  that  he  said  abruptly,  seeking  refuge  in  occupa 
tion: 

"  Why  not  reach  out  to  sea  ?  The  conditions  are  per 
fect." 

[45] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

"  Ah,  please!  "  she  cried.  "  Just  to  take  up  the  anchor 
would  thrill  me  for  months." 

A  light  west  wind  was  blowing;  and  deliberate,  exactly 
spaced  rollers,  their  tops  laced  with  iridescent  spray,  were 
sweeping  in  from  a  sea  like  a  glassy,  blue  pavement. 
Woolfolk  issued  a  short  order,  and  the  sailor  moved  for 
ward  with  his  customary  smooth  swiftness.  The  sails 
were  shaken  loose,  the  mainsail  slowly  spread  its  dazzling 
expanse  to  the  sun,  the  jib  and  jigger  were  trimmed  and 
the  anchor  came  up  with  a  short  rush. 

Millie  rose  with  her  arms  outspread,  her  chin  high  and 
eyes  closed. 

"  Free!  "  she  proclaimed  with  a  slow,  deep  breath. 

The  sails  filled  and  the  ketch  forged  ahead.  John 
Woolfolk,  at  the  wheel,  glanced  at  the  chart  section  beside 
him. 

"  There's  four  feet  on  the  bar  at  low  water,"  he  told 
Halvard.  "  The  tide's  at  half  flood  now." 

The  Gar  increased  her  speed,  slipping  easily  out  of  the 
bay,  gladly,  it  seemed  to  Woolfolk,  turning  toward  the 
sea.  The  bow  rose,  and  the  ketch  dipped  forward  over 
a  spent  roller.  Millie  Stope  grasped  the  wheelbox. 
"  Free!  "  she  said  again  with  shining  eyes. 

The  yacht  rose  more  sharply,  hung  on  a  wave's  crest 
and  slid  lightly  downward.  Woolfolk,  with  a  sinewy, 
dark  hand  directing  their  course,  was  intent  upon  the 
swelling  sails.  Once  he  stopped,  tightening  a  halyard, 
and  the  sailor  said: 

"  The  main  peak  won't  flatten,  sir." 

The  waves  grew  larger.  The  Gar  climbed  their  smooth 
heights  and  coasted  like  a  feather  beyond.  Directly  be- 

[46] 


WILD     ORANGES 

fore  the  yacht  they  were  unbroken,  but  on  either  side  they 
foamed  into  a  silver  quickly  reabsorbed  in  the  deeper 
water  within  the  bar. 

Woolfolk  turned  from  his  scrutiny  of  the  ketch  to  his 
companion,  and  was  surprised  to  see  her,  with  all  the  joy 
evaporated  from  her  countenance,  clinging  rigidly  to  the 
nil.  He  said  to  himself,  "  Seasick."  Then  he  realized 
that  it  was  not  a  physical  illness  that  possessed  her,  but  a 
profound,  increasing  terror.  She  endeavored  to  smile  back 
at  his  questioning  gaze,  and  said  in  a  small,  uncertain 
voice : 

"It's  so  — so  big!" 

For  a  moment  he  saw  in  her  a  clear  resemblance  to  the 
shrinking  figure  of  Lichfield  Stope.  It  was  as  though 
suddenly  she  had  lost  her  fine  profile  and  become  inde 
terminate,  shadowy.  The  grey  web  of  the  old  deflection 
in  Virginia  extended  over  her  out  of  the  past  —  of  the 
past  that,  Woolfolk  thought,  would  not  die. 

The  Gar  rose  higher  still,  dropped  into  the  deep,  watery 
valley,  and  the  woman's  face  was  drawn  and  wet,  the 
back  of  her  straining  hand  was  dead  white.  Without 
further  delay  John  Woolfolk  put  the  wheel  sharply  over 
and  told  his  man,  "  We're  going  about."  Halvard  busied 
himself  with  the  shaking  sails. 

"  Really  —  I'd  rather  you  didn't,"  Millie  gasped.  "  I 
must  learn  —  no  longer  a  child." 

But  Woolfolk  held  the  ketch  on  her  return  course;  his 
companion's  panic  was  growing  beyond  her  control.  They 
passed  once  more  between  the  broken  waves  and  entered 
the  still  bay  with  its  border  of  flowering  earth.  There, 
when  the  yacht  had  been  anchored,  Millie  sat  gazing 

[47] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

silently  at  the  open  sea  whose  bigness  had  so  unexpectedly 
distressed  her.  Her  face  was  pinched,  her  mouth  set  in 
a  straight,  hard  line.  Something  about  the  latter  fea 
ture  suggested  to  Woolfolk  the  enigmatic  governess ;  it  was 
in  contradiction  to  the  rest. 

"  How  strange,"  she  said  at  last  in  an  insuperably 
weary  voice,  "  to  be  forced  back  to  this  place  that  I  loathe, 
by  myself,  by  my  own  cowardice.  It's  exactly  as  if  my 
spirit  were  chained  —  then  the  body  could  never  be  free. 
What  is  it,"  she  demanded  of  John  Woolfolk,  "  that  lives 
in  our  own  hearts  and  betrays  our  utmost  convictions  and 
efforts,  and  destroys  us  against  all  knowledge  and  desire?  " 

"It  may  be  called  heredity,"  he  replied;  "that  is  its 
simplest  phase.  The  others  extend  into  the  realms  of  the 
fantastic." 

"  It's  unjust,"  she  cried  bitterly,  "to  be  condemned  to 
die  in  a  pit  with  all  one's  instinct  in  the  sky !  " 

The  old  plea  of  injustice  quivered  for  a  moment  over 
the  water  and  then  died  away.  John  Woolfolk  had  made 
the  same  passionate  protest,  he  had  cried  it  with  clenched 
hands  at  the  withdrawn  stars,  and  the  profound  inat 
tention  of  Nature  had  appalled  his  agony.  A  thrill  of 
pity  moved  him  for  the  suffering  woman  beside  him. 
Her  mouth  was  still  unrelaxed.  There  was  in  her  the 
material  for  a  struggle  against  the  invidious  past. 

In  her  slender  frame  the  rebellion  took  on  an  accent 
of  the  heroic.  Woolfolk  recalled  how  utterly  he  had  gone 
down  before  mischance.  But  his  case  had  been  extreme, 
he  had  suffered  an  unendurable  wrong  at  the  hand  of  Fate. 
Halvard  diverted  his  thoughts  by  placing  before  them  a 
tray  of  sugared  pineapple  and  symmetrical  cakes.  Millie, 

[48] 


WILD    ORANGES 

too,  lost  her  tension,  she  showed  a  feminine  pleasure  at  the 
yacht's  fine  napkins,  approved  the  polish  of  the  glass. 

"  It's  all  quite  wonderful,"  she  said. 

"  I  have  nothing  else  to  care  for,"  Woolfolk  told  her. 

"  No  place  nor  people  on  land  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  And  you  are  satisfied?  " 

"  Absolutely,"  he  replied  with  an  unnecessary  emphasis. 
He  was,  he  told  himself  aggressively;  he  wanted  nothing 
more  from  living  and  had  nothing  to  give.  Yet  his  pity 
for  Millie  Stope  mounted  obscurely,  bringing  with  it 
thoughts,  half-sensed  desires,  dim  obligations,  to  which  he 
had  declared  himself  dead. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  to  be  envied?  "  she  queried. 

A  sudden  astounding  willingness  to  speak  of  himself, 
even  of  the  past,  swept  over  him. 

"  Hardly,"  he  replied.  "  All  the  things  that  men  value 
were  killed  for  me  in  an  instant,  in  the  flutter  of  a  white 
skirt." 

"  Can  you  talk  about  it?  " 

"  There's  almost  nothing  to  tell ;  it  was  so  unrelated,  so 
senseless,  blind.  It  can't  be  dressed  into  a  story,  it  has  no 
moral  —  no  meaning.  Well  —  it  was  twelve  years  ago. 
I  had  just  been  married,  and  we  had  gone  to  a  property  in 
the  country.  After  two  days  I  had  to  go  into  town,  and 
when  I  came  back  Ellen  met  me  in  a  breaking  cart.  It 
was  a  flag  station,  buried  in  maples,  with  a  white  road 
winding  back  to  where  we  were  staying. 

"  Ellen  had  trouble  in  holding  the  horse  when  the  train 
left,  and  the  beast  shied  going  from  the  station.  It  was 
Monday,  clothes  hung  from  a  line  in  a  side  yard  and  a 

[49] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

skirt  fluttered  in  a  little  breeze.  The  horse  reared,  the 
strapped  back  of  the  seat  broke,  and  Ellen  was  thrown  — 
on  her  head.  It  killed  her." 

He  fell  silent.  Millie  breathed  sharply,  and  a  ripple 
struck  with  a  faint  slap  on  the  yacht's  side.  Then: 
"  One  can't  sanction  that,"  he  continued  in  a  lower  voice, 
as  if  arguing  with  himself;  "  arbitrary,  wanton;  impos 
sible  to  accept  such  conditions 

"  She  was  young,"  he  once  more  took  up  the  narrative; 
"  a  girl  in  a  tennis  skirt  with  a  gay  scarf  about  her 
waist  —  quite  dead  in  a  second.  The  clothes  still  flut 
tered  on  the  line.  You  see,"  he  ended,  "  nothing  in 
structive,  tragic  —  only  a  crude  dissonance." 

"  Then  you  left  everything?  " 

He  failed  to  answer,  and  she  gazed  with  a  new  under 
standing  and  interest  over  the  Gar.  Her  attention  was 
attracted  to  the  beach,  and,  following  her  gaze,  John  Wool- 
folk  saw  the  bulky  figure  of  Nicholas  gazing  at  them  from 
under  his  palm.  A  palpable  change,  a  swift  shadow  en 
veloped  Millie  Stope. 

"I  must  go  back,"  she  said  uneasily;  "there  will  be 
dinner,  and  my  father  has  been  alone  all  morning." 

But  Woolfolk  was  certain  that,  however  convincing  the 
reasons  she  put  forward,  it  was  none  of  these  that  was 
taking  her  so  hurriedly  ashore.  The  dread  that  for  the 
past  few  hours  had  almost  vanished  from  her  tones,  her 
gaze,  had  returned  multiplied.  It  was,  he  realized,  the 
objective  fear;  her  entire  being  was  shrinking  as  if  in 
anticipation  of  an  imminent  calamity,  a  physical  blow. 

Woolfolk  himself  put  her  on  the  beach;  and,  with  the 
tender  canted  on  the  sand,  steadied  her  spring.  As  her 

[SO] 


WILD     ORANGES 

hand  rested  on  his  arm  it  gripped  him  with  a  sharp  force; 
a  response  pulsed  through  his  body;  and  an  involuntary 
color  rose  in  her  pale,  fine  cheeks. 

Nicholas,  stolidly  set  with  his  shoes  half  buried  in  the 
sand,  surveyed  them  without  a  shade  of  feeling  on  his 
thick  countenance.  But  Woolfolk  saw  that  the  other's 
fingers  were  crawling  toward  his  pocket.  He  realized 
that  the  man's  dully  smiling  mask  concealed  sultry,  un- 
governed  emotions,  blind  springs  of  gall. 

VII 

Again  on  the  ketch  the  inevitable  reaction  overtook  him. 
He  had  spoken  of  Ellen's  death  to  no  one  until  now, 
through  all  the  years  when  he  had  been  a  wanderer  on 
the  edge  of  his  world,  and  he  bitterly  regretted  mentioning 
it.  In  speaking  he  had  betrayed  his  resolve  of  solitude. 
Life,  against  all  his  instinct,  his  wishes,  had  reached  out 
and  caught  him,  however  lightly,  in  its  tentacles. 

The  least  surrender,  he  realized,  the  slightest  opening  of 
his  interest,  would  bind  him  with  a  multitude  of  attach 
ments;  the  octopus  that  he  dreaded,  uncoiling  arm  after 
arm,  would  soon  hold  him  again,  a  helpless  victim  for  the 
fury  Chance. 

He  had  made  a  disastrous  error  in  following  his  cu 
riosity,  the  insistent  scent  of  the  wild  oranges,  to  the  house 
where  Millie  had  advanced  on  the  dim  portico.  His  re 
turn  there  had  been  the  inevitable  result  of  the  first  mis 
take,  and  the  rest  had  followed  with  a  fatal  ease.  What 
ever  had  been  the  deficiences  of  the  past  twelve  years  he 
had  been  free  from  new  complications,  fresh  treacheries. 

[51] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

Now,  with  hardly  a  struggle,  he  was  falling  back  into 
the  trap. 

The  wind  died  away  absolutely,  and  a  haze  gathered 
delicately  over  the  sea,  thickening  through  the  afternoon 
and  turned  rosy  by  the  declining  sun.  The  shore  had 
faded  from  sight. 

A  sudden  energy  leaped  through  John  Woolfolk,  rang 
out  in  an  abrupt  summons  to  Halvard.  "  Get  up  anchor," 
he  commanded. 

Poul  Halvard,  at  the  mainstay,  remarked  tentatively: 
"  There's  not  a  capful  of  wind." 

The  wide  calm,  Woolfolk  thought,  was  but  a  part  of  a 
general  conspiracy  against  his  liberty,  his  memories. 
"  Get  the  anchor  up,"  he  repeated  harshly.  "  We'll  go 
under  the  engine."  The  sudden  jarring  of  the  Gar's  en 
gine  sounded  muffled  in  a  shut  space  like  the  flushed  heart 
of  a  shell.  The  yacht  moved  forward,  with  a  wake  like 
folded  gauze,  into  a  shimmer  of  formless  and  pure  color. 

John  Woolfolk  sat  at  the  wheel,  motionless  except  for 
an  occasional,  scant  shifting  of  his  hands.  He  was  sail 
ing  by  compass;  the  patent  log,  trailing  behind  on  its  long 
cord,  maintained  a  constant,  jerking  register  on  its  dial. 
He  had  resolutely  banished  all  thought  save  that  of  navi 
gation.  Halvard  was  occupied  forward,  clearing  the 
deck  of  the  accumulations  of  the  anchorage.  When  he 
came  aft  Woolfolk  said  shortly:  "No  mess." 

The  haze  deepened  and  night  fell,  and  the  sailor  lighted 
and  placed  the  port  and  starboard  lights.  The  binnacle 
lamp  threw  up  a  dim,  orange  radiance  on  Wool  folk's 
somber  countenance.  He  continued  for  three  and  four 
and  then  five  hours  at  the  wheel,  while  the  smooth  clamor 

[52] 


WILD    ORANGES 

of  the  engine,  a  slight  quiver  of  the  hull,  alone  marked 
their  progress  through  an  invisible  element. 

Once  more  he  had  left  life  behind.  This  had  more  the 
aspect  of  a  flight  than  at  any  time  previous.  It  was, 
obscurely,  an  unpleasant  thought,  and  he  endeavored  — 
unsuccessfully  —  to  put  it  from  him.  He  was  but  pur 
suing  the  course  he  had  laid  out,  following  his  necessary, 
inflexible  determination. 

His  mind  for  a  moment  turned  independently  back  to 
Millie,  with  her  double  burden  of  fear.  He  had  left  her 
without  a  word,  isolated  with  Nicholas,  concealing  with  a 
blank  smile  his  enigmatic  being,  and  with  her  impotent 
parent. 

Well,  he  was  not  responsible  for  her,  he  had  paid  for  the 
privilege  of  immunity;  he  had  but  listened  to  her  story, 
volunteering  nothing.  John  Woolfolk  wished,  however, 
that  he  had  said  some  final,  useful  word  to  her  before 
going.  He  was  certain  that,  looking  for  the  ketch  and 
unexpectedly  finding  the  bay  empty,  she  would  suffer  a 
pang,  if  only  of  loneliness.  In  the  short  while  that  he  had 
been  there  she  had  come  to  depend  on  him  for  compan 
ionship,  for  relief  from  the  insuperable  monotony  of  her 
surroundings;  for,  perhaps,  still  more.  He  wondered 
what  that  more  might  contain.  He  thought  of  Millie  at 
the  present  moment,  probably  lying  awake,  steeped  in 
dread.  His  flight  now  assumed  the  aspect  of  an  act  of 
cowardice,  of  desertion.  He  rehearsed  wearily  the  extenu 
ations  of  his  position,  but  without  any  palpable  relief. 

An  even  more  disturbing  possibility  lodged  in  his 
thoughts  —  he  was  not  certain  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
actually  back  with  Millie  again.  He  felt  the  quick  pres- 

[S3] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

sure  of  her  fingers  on  his  arm  as  she  jumped  from  the 
tender;  her  magnetic  personality  hung  about  him  like  an 
aroma.  Cloaked  in  mystery,  pale  and  irresistible,  she 
appealed  to  him  from  the  edge  of  the  wild  oranges. 

This,  he  told  himself  again,  was  but  the  manner  in 
which  a  ruthless  Nature  set  her  lures ;  it  was  the  deceptive 
vestment  of  romance.  He  held  the  ketch  relentlessly  on 
her  course,  with  —  now  —  all  this  thoughts,  his  inclina 
tions,  returning  to  Millie  Stope.  In  a  final,  desperate 
rally  of  his  scattering  resolution  he  told  himself  that  he 
was  unfaithful  to  the  tragic  memory  of  Ellen.  This  last 
stay  broke  abruptly,  and  left  him  defenseless  against  the 
tyranny  of  his  mounting  desires.  Strangely  he  felt  the 
sudden  pressure  of  a  stirring  wind  upon  his  face;  and, 
almost  with  an  oath,  he  put  the  wheel  sharply  over  and 
the  Gar  swung  about. 

Poul  Halvard  had  been  below,  by  inference  asleep;  but 
when  the  yacht  changed  her  course  he  immediately  ap 
peared  on  deck.  He  moved  aft,  but  Wool  folk  made  no 
explanation,  the  sailor  put  no  questions.  The  wind 
freshened,  grew  sustained.  Woolfolk  said: 

"  Make  sail." 

Soon  after  the  mainsail  rose,  a  ghostly  white  expanse  on 
the  night.  John  Woolfolk  trimmed  the  jigger,  shut  off  the 
engine;  and,  moving  through  a  sudden,  vast  hush,  they 
retraced  their  course.  The  bay  was  ablaze  with  sunlight, 
the  morning  well  advanced,  when  the  ketch  floated  back 
to  her  anchorage  under  the  oleanders. 


[S4] 


WILD    ORANGES 


VIII 

Whether  he  returned  or  fled,  Woolfolk  thought,  he  was 
enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  defeat.  He  relinquished 
the  wheel,  but  remained  seated,  drooping  at  his  post. 
The  indefatigable  Halvard  proceeded  with  the  efficient 
discharge  of  his  narrow,  exacting  duties.  After  a  short 
space  John  Woolfolk  descended  to  the  cabin,  where,  on  an 
unmade  berth,  he  fell  immediately  asleep. 

He  woke  to  a  dim  interior  and  twilight  gathering  out 
side.  He  shaved  —  without  conscious  purpose  —  with 
meticulous  care,  and  put  on  the  blue  flannel  coat.  Later 
he ,  rowed  himself  ashore  and  proceeded  directly  through 
the  orange  grove  to  the  house  beyond. 

Millie  Stope  was  seated  on  the  portico,  and  laid  a 
restraining  hand  on  her  father's  arm  as  he  rose,  attempting 
to  retreat  at  Woolfolk's  approach.  The  latter,  with  a 
commonplace  greeting,  resumed  his  place. 

Millie's  face  was  dim  and  potent  in  the  gloom,  and  Lich- 
field  Stope  more  than  ever  resembled  an  uneasy  ghost. 
He  muttered  an  indistinct  response  to  a  period  directed  at 
him  by  Woolfolk  and  turned  with  a  low,  urgent  appeal  to 
his  daughter.  The  latter,  with  a  hopeless  gesture,  relin 
quished  his  arm,  and  the  other  disappeared  as  if  by  magic. 

"You  were  sailing  this  morning,"  Millie  commented 
listlessly. 

"  I  had  gone,"  he  said  without  explanation.  Then  he 
added:  "But  I  came  back." 

A  silence  threatened  them  which  he  resolutely  broke: 
"  Do  you  remember,  when  you  told  me  about  your  father, 

[55] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

that  you  wanted  really  to  talk  about  yourself?  Will  you 
do  that  now?" 

"  Tonight  I  haven't  the  courage." 

"  I  am  not  idly  curious,"  he  persisted. 

"  Just  what  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  admitted  frankly.  "  At  the  present 
moment  I'm  lost,  fogged.  But,  meanwhile,  I'd  like  to  give 
you  any  assistance  in  my  power.  You  seem,  in  a  mys 
terious  way,  needful  of  help." 

She  turned  her  head  sharply  in  the  direction  of  the  open 
hall  and  said  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  that  yet  rang  strangely 
false :  "  I  am  quite  well  cared  for  by  my  father  and 
Nicholas."  She  moved  closer  to  him,  dragging  her  chair 
across  the  uneven  porch,  in  the  rasp  of  which  she  added, 
quick  and  low: 

"Don't  — please." 

A  mounting  exasperation  seized  him  at  the  secrecy  that 
veiled  her,  hid  her  from  him,  and  he  answered  stiffly:  "  I 
am  merely  intrusive." 

She  was  seated  above  him,  and  she  leaned  forward  and 
swiftly  pressed  his  fingers,  loosely  clasped  about  a  knee. 
Her  hand  was  as  cold  as  salt.  His  irritation  vanished 
before  a  welling  pity.  He  got  now  a  sharp,  recognized 
happiness  from  her  nearness;  his  feeling  for  her  increased 
with  the  accumulating  seconds.  After  the  surrender,  the 
admission,  of  his  return  he  had  grown  elemental,  sensi 
tized  to  emotions  rather  than  to  processes  of  intellect.  His 
ardor  had  the  poignancy  of  the  period  beyond  youth. 
It  had  a  trace  of  the  consciousness  of  the  fatal  waning  of 
life  which  gave  it  a  depth  denied  to  younger  passions. 
He  wished  to  take  Millie  Stope  at  once  from  all  memory 

[56] 


WILD    ORANGES 

of  the  troublous  past,  to  have  her  alone  in  a  totally 
different  and  thrilling  existence. 

It  was  a  personal  and  blind  desire,  born  in  the  un 
accustomed  tumult  of  his  newly  released  feelings. 

They  sat  for  a  long  while,  silent  or  speaking  in  triviali 
ties,  when  he  proposed  a  walk  to  the  sea;  but  she  de 
clined  in  that  curiously  loud  and  false  tone.  It  seemed 
to  Woolfolk  that,  for  the  moment,  she  had  addressed 
someone  not  immediately  present;  and  involuntarily  he 
looked  around.  The  light  of  the  hidden  lamp  in  the  hall 
fell  in  a  pale,  unbroken  rectangle  on  the  irregular  porch. 
There  was  not  the  shifting  of  a  pound's  weight  audible 
in  the  stillness. 

Millie  breathed  unevenly;  at  times  he  saw  she  shiv 
ered  uncontrollably.  At  this  his  feeling  mounted  be 
yond  all  restraint.  He  said,  taking  her  cold  hand: 
"  I  didn't  tell  you  why  I  went  last  night  —  it  was  be 
cause  I  was  afraid  to  stay  where  you  were;  I  was 
afraid  of  the  change  you  were  bringing  about  in  my 
life.  That's  all  over  now,  I " 

"  Isn't  it  quite  late  ? "  she  interrupted  him  uncom 
fortably.  She  rose  and  her  agitation  visibly  increased. 

He  was  about  to  force  her  to  hear  all  that  he  must 
say,  but  he  stopped  at  the  mute  wretchedness  of  her 
pallid  face.  He  stood  gazing  up  at  her  from  the  rough 
sod.  She  clenched  her  hands,  her  breast  heaved  sharply, 
and  she  spoke  in  a  level,  strained  voice: 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  gone  —  without 
coming  back.  My  father  is  unhappy  with  anyone  about 
except  myself  and  —  and  Nicholas.  You  see  —  he  will 
not  stay  on  the  porch  nor  walk  about  his  grounds.  I  am 

[57] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

not  in  need  of  assistance,  as  you  seem  to  think.  And 
—  thank  you.  Good  night." 

He  stood  without  moving,  his  head  thrown  back,  re 
garding  her  with  a  searching  frown.  He  listened  again, 
unconsciously,  and  thought  he  heard  the  low  creaking  of 
a  board  from  within.  It  could  be  nothing  but  the  un 
easy  peregrination  of  Lichfield  Stope.  The  sound  was 
repeated,  grew  louder,  and  the  sagging  bulk  of  Nicholas 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

The  latter  stood  for  a  moment,  a  dark,  magnified  shape; 
and  then,  moving  across  the  portico  to  the  farthest  win 
dow,  closed  the  shutters.  The  hinges  gave  out  a  rasping 
grind,  as  if  they  had  not  been  turned  for  months,  and  there 
was  a  faint  rattle  of  falling  particles  of  rusted  iron. 
The  man  forced  shut  a  second  set  of  shutters  with  a 
sudden  violence  and  went  slowly  back  into  the  house. 
Millie  Stope  said  once  more: 

"  Good  night." 

It  was  evident  to  Wool  folk  that  he  could  gain  nothing 
more  at  present;  and  stifling  an  angry  protest,  an  impa 
tient  troop  of  questions,  he  turned  and  strode  back  to  the 
tender.  However,  he  hadn't  the  slightest  intention  of 
following  Millie's  indirectly  expressed  wish  for  him  to 
leave.  He  had  the  odd  conviction  that  at  heart  she  did 
not  want  him  to  go;  the  evening,  he  elaborated  this  feel 
ing,  had  been  all  a  strange  piece  of  acting.  Tomorrow 
he  would  tear  apart  the  veil  that  hid  her  from  him;  he 
would  ignore  her  every  protest  and  force  the  truth  from  her. 

He  lifted  the  tender's  anchor  from  the  sand  and  pulled 
sharply  across  the  water  to  the  Gar.  A  reddish,  misshapen 
moon  hung  in  the  east,  and  when  he  had  mounted  to 

[58] 


WILD     ORANGES 

his  deck  it  was  suddenly  obscured  by  a  high,  racing  scud 
of  cloud;  the  air  had  a  damper,  thicker  feel.  He  in 
stinctively  moved  to  the  barometer,  which  he  found  de 
pressed.  The  wind,  that  had  continued  steadily  since 
the  night  before,  increased,  and  there  was  a  corresponding 
stir  among  the  branches  ashore,  a  slapping  of  the  yacht's 
cordage  against  the  spars.  He  turned  forward  and  half 
absently  noted  the  increasing  strain  on  the  hawser  dis 
appearing  into  the  dark  tide.  The  anchor  was  firmly 
bedded.  The  pervasive,  far  murmur  of  the  waves  on 
the  outer  bars  grew  louder. 

The  yacht  swung  lightly  over  the  choppy  water,  and 
a  strong  affection  for  the  ketch  that  had  been  his  home, 
his  occupation,  his  solace  through  the  past  dreary  years 
expanded  his  heart.  He  knew  the  Gar's  every  capability 
and  mood,  and  they  were  all  good.  She  was  an  excep 
tional  boat.  His  feeling  was  acute,  for  he  knew  that 
the  yacht  had  been  superseded.  It  was  already  an  ele 
ment  of  the  past,  of  that  past  in  which  Ellen  lay  dead 
in  a  tennis  skirt,  with  a  bright  scarf  about  her  young 
waist. 

He  placed  his  hand  on  the  mainmast,  in  the  manner  in 
which  another  might  drop  a  palm  on  the  shoulder  of  a 
departing,  faithful  companion,  and  the  wind  in  the  rig 
ging  vibrated  through  the  wood  like  a  sentient  and  affec 
tionate  response.  Then  he  went  resolutely  down  into 
the  cabin,  facing  the  future. 

John  Woolfolk  woke  in  the  night,  listened  for  a  mo 
ment  to  the  straining  hull  and  wind  shrilling  aloft,  and 
then  rose  and  went  forward  again  to  examine  the  mooring. 
A  second  hawser  now  reached  into  the  darkness.  Halvard 

[59] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

had  been  on  deck  and  put  out  another  anchor.  The 
wind  beat  salt  and  stinging  from  the  sea,  utterly  dissipat 
ing  the  languorous  breath  of  the  land,  the  odors  of  the 
exotic,  flowering  trees. 

IX 

In  the  morning  a  storm,  driving  out  of  the  east,  envel 
oped  the  coast  in  a  frigid,  lashing  rain.  The  wind 
mounted  steadily  through  the  middle  of  the  day  with 
an  increasing  pitch  accompanied  by  the  basso  of  the 
racing  seas.  The  bay  grew  opaque  and  seamed  with 
white  scars.  After  the  meridian  the  rain  ceased,  but 
the  wind  maintained  its  volume,  clamoring  beneath  a 
leaden  pall. 

John  Wool  folk,  in  dripping  yellow  oilskins,  occasion 
ally  circled  the  deck  of  his  ketch.  Halvard  had  every 
thing  in  a  perfection  of  order.  When  the  rain  stopped, 
the  sailor  dropped  into  the  tender  and  with  a  boat  sponge 
bailed  vigorously.  Soon  after,  Wool  folk  stepped  out 
upon  the  beach.  He  was  without  any  plan  but  the  de 
termination  to  put  aside  whatever  obstacles  held  Millie 
from  him.  This  rapidly  crystallized  into  the  resolve  to 
take  her  with  him  before  another  day  ended.  His  feel 
ing  for  her,  increasing  to  a  passionate  need,  had  de 
stroyed  the  suspension,  the  deliberate  calm  of  his  life,  as 
the  storm  had  dissipated  the  sunny  peace  of  the  coast. 

He  paused  before  the  ruined  fagade,  weighing  her 
statement  that  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  not 
returned;  and  he  wondered  how  that  would  affect  her 
willingness,  her  ability  to  see  him  today.  He  added 

[60] 


WILD     ORANGES 

the  word  "  ability "  instinctively  and  without  explana 
tion.  And  he  decided  that,  in  order  to  have  any  satis 
factory  speech  with  her,  he  must  come  upon  her  alone, 
away  from  the  house.  Then  he  could  force  her  to  hear 
to  the  finish  what  he  wanted  to  say;  in  the  open  they 
might  escape  from  the  inexplicable  inhibition  that  lay 
upon  her  expression  of  feeling,  of  desire.  It  would  be 
necessary,  at  the  same  time,  to  avoid  the  notice  of  any 
one  who  would  warn  her  of  his  presence.  This  precluded 
his  waiting  at  the  familiar  place  on  the  rotting  wharf. 

Three  marble  steps,  awry  and  moldy,  descended  to  the 
lawn  from  a  French  window  in  the  side  of  the  desolate 
mansion.  They  were  screened  by  a  tangle  of  rose-mal 
low,  and  there  John  Woolfolk  seated  himself  —  waiting. 

The  wind  shrilled  about  the  corner  of  the  house,  there 
was  a  mournful  clatter  of  shingles  from  above  and  the 
frenzied  lashing  of  boughs.  The  noise  was  so  great  that 
he  failed  to  hear  the  slightest  indication  of  the  approach 
of  Nicholas  until  that  individual  passed  directly  before 
him.  Nicholas  stopped  at  the  inner  fringe  of  the  beach 
and,  from  a  point  where  he  could  not  be  seen  from  the 
ketch,  stood  gazing  out  at  the  Gar  pounding  on  her  long 
anchor  chains.  The  man  remained  for  an  oppressively 
extended  period;  Woolfolk  could  see  his  heavy,  drooping 
shoulders  and  sunken  head;  and  then  the  other  moved  to 
the  left,  crossing  the  rough  open  behind  the  oleanders. 
Woolfolk  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a  huge  nose  and 
rapidly  moving  lips  above  an  impotent  chin. 

Nicholas,  he  realized,  remained  a  complete  enigma  to 
him;  beyond  the  conviction  that  the  man  was,  in  some 
minor  way,  leaden-witted,  he  knew  nothing. 

[61] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

A  brief,  watery  ray  of  sunlight  fell  through  a  rift  in 
the  flying  clouds  and  stained  the  tossing  foliage  pale 
gold;  it  was  followed  by  a  sudden  drift  of  rain,  then 
once  more  the  naked  wind.  Woolfolk  was  fast  deter 
mining  to  go  up  to  the  house  and  insist  upon  Millie's 
hearing  him,  when  unexpectedly  she  appeared  in  a  som 
ber,  fluttering  cloak,  with  her  head  uncovered  and  hair 
blown  back  from  her  pale  brow.  He  waited  until  she 
had  passed  him,  and  then  rose,  softly  calling  her  name. 

She  stopped  and  turned,  with  a  hand  pressed  to  her 
heart.  "  I  was  afraid  you'd  gone  out,"  she  told  him. 
"The  sea  is  like  a  pack  of  wolves."  Her  voice  was  a 
low  complexity  of  relief  and  fear. 

"Not  alone,"  he  replied;  "not  without  you." 

"Madness,"  she  murmured,  gathering  her  wavering 
cloak  about  her  breast.  She  swayed,  graceful  as  a  reed 
in  the  wind,  charged  with  potency.  He  made  an  involun 
tary  gesture  toward  her  with  his  arms;  but  in  a  sudden 
access  of  fear  she  eluded  him. 

"We  must  talk,"  he  told  her.  "There  is  a  great 
deal  that  needs  explaining,  that  —  I  think  —  I  have  a 
right  to  know,  the  right  of  your  dependence  on  something 
to  save  you  from  yourself.  There  is  another  right,  but 
only  you  can  give  that " 

"  Indeed,"  she  interrupted  tensely,  "  you  mustn't  stand 
here  talking  to  me." 

"  I  shall  allow  nothing  to  interrupt  us,"  he  returned 
decidedly.  "  I  have  been  long  enough  in  the  dark." 

"  But  you  don't  understand  what  you  will,  perhaps, 
bring  on  yourself  —  on  me." 

"  I'm  forced  to  ignore  even  that  last." 
[62] 


WILD    ORANGES 

She  glanced  hurriedly  about.  "  Not  here  then,  if  you 
must" 

She  walked  from  him,  toward  the  second  ruined  pile 
that  fronted  the  bay.  The  steps  to  the  gaping  entrance 
had  rotted  away  and  they  were  forced  to  mount  an  inse 
cure  side  piece.  The  interior,  as  Woolfolk  had  seen,  was 
composed  of  one  high  room,  while,  above,  a  narrow,  open 
second  story  hung  like  a  ledge.  On  both  sides  were  long 
counters  with  mounting  sets  of  shelves  behind  them. 

"This  was  the  store,"  Millie  told  him.  "It  was  a 
great  estate." 

A  dim  and  moldering  fragment  of  cotton  stuff  was  hang 
ing  from  a  forgotten  bolt;  above,  some  tinware  was  eaten 
with  rust;  a  scale  had  crushed  in  the  floor  and  lay 
broken  on  the  earth  beneath;  and  a  ledger,  its  leaves 
a  single,  sodden  film  of  grey,  was  still  open  on  a  counter. 
A  precarious  stair  mounted  to  the  flooring  above,  and 
Millie  Stope  made  her  way  upward,  followed  by  Wool- 
folk. 

There,  in  the  double  gloom  of  the  clouds  and  a  small 
dormer  window  obscured  by  cobwebs,  she  sank  on  a 
broken  box.  The  insane  building  shook  perilously  in  the 
blasts  of  the  wind.  Below  they  could  see  the  empty  floor, 
and  through  the  doorway  the  somber,  gleaming  greenery 
without. 

All  the  patient  expostulation  that  John  Woolfolk  had 
prepared  disappeared  in  a  sudden  tyranny  of  emotion,  of 
hunger  for  the  slender,  weary  figure  before  him.  Seat 
ing  himself  at  her  side,  he  burst  into  a  torrential  ex 
pression  of  passionate  desire  that  mounted  with  the  tide 
of  his  eager  words.  He  caught  her  hands,  held  them  in 

[63] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

a  painful  grip,  and  gazed  down  into  her  still,  frightened 
face.  He  stopped  abruptly,  was  silent  for  a  tempestuous 
moment,  and  then  baldly  repeated  the  fact  of  his  love. 

Millie   Stope   said: 

"  I  know  so  little  about  the  love  you  mean."  Her 
voice  trailed  to  silence;  and  in  a  lull  of  the  storm  they 
heard  the  thin  patter  of  rats  on  the  floor  below,  the  stir 
of  bats  among  the  rafters. 

"  It's  quickly  learned,"  he  assured  her.  "  Millie,  do 
you  feel  any  response  at  all  in  your  heart  —  the  slight 
est  return  of  my  longing?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  turning  toward  him 
a  troubled  scrutiny.  "  Perhaps  in  another  surrounding, 
with  things  different,  I  might  care  for  you  very 
much " 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  into  that  other  surrounding," 
he  announced. 

She  ignored  his  interruption.  "  But  we  shall  never 
have  a  chance  to  learn."  She  silenced  his  attempted  pro 
test  with  a  cool,  flexible  palm  against  his  mouth.  "  Life," 
she  continued,  "  is  so  dreadfully  in  the  dark.  One  is 
lost  at  the  beginning.  There  are  maps  to  take  you  safely 
to  the  Guianas,  but  none  for  souls.  Perhaps  religions 

are Again  I  don't  know.  I  have  found  nothing 

secure  —  only  a  whirlpool  into  which  I  will  not  drag 
others." 

"  I  will  drag  you  out,"  he  asserted. 

She  smiled  at  him,  in  a  momentary  tenderness,  and 
continued:  "When  I  was  young  I  never  doubted  that 
I  would  conquer  life.  I  pictured  myself  rising  in  triumph 
over  circumstance,  as  a  gull  leaves  the  sea.  .  .  .  When  I 

[64] 


WILD    ORANGES 

was  young  ...  If  I  was  afraid  of  the  dark  then  I 
thought,  of  course,  I  would  outgrow  it;  but  it  has  grown 
deeper  than  my  courage.  The  night  is  terrible  now."  A 
shiver  passed  over  her. 

"  You  are  ill,"  he  insisted,  "  but  you  shall  be  cured." 

"  Perhaps,  a  year  ago,  something  might  have  been 
done,  with  assistance;  yes  —  with  you.  Then,  whatever 
is,  hadn't  materialized.  Why  did  you  delay?  "  she  cried 
in  a  sudden  suffering. 

"  You'll  go  with  me  tonight,"  he  declared  stoutly. 

"In  this?"  She  indicated  the  wind  beating  with 
the  blows  of  a  great  fist  against  the  swaying  walls  of  the 
demolished  store.  "  Have  you  seen  the  sea?  Do  you 
remember  what  happened  on  the  day  I  went  with  you 
when  it  was  so  beautiful  and  still  ?  " 

John  Woolfolk  realized,  wakened  to  a  renewed  mental 
clearness  by  the  threatening  of  all  that  he  desired,  that 
—  as  Millie  had  intimated  —  life  was  too  complicated  to 
be  solved  by  a  simple  longing;  love  was  not  the  allr 
powerful  magician  of  conventional  acceptance;  there  were 
other,  no  less  profound,  depths. 

He  resolutely  abandoned  his  mere  inchoate  wanting, 
and  considered  the  elements  of  the  position  that  were 
known  to  him.  There  was,  in  the  first  place,  that  old, 
lamentable  dereliction  of  Lichfield  Stope's,  and  its  after 
math  in  his  daughter.  Millie  had  just  recalled  to  Wool- 
folk  the  duration,  the  activity,  of  its  poison.  Here  there 
was  no  possibility  of  escape  by  mere  removal;  the  stain 
was  within;  and  it  must  be  thoroughly  cleansed  before 
she  could  cope  successfully,  happily,  with  life.  In  this,  he 
was  forced  to  acknowledge,  he  could  help  her  but  little; 

[65] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

it  was  an  affair  of  spirit ;  and  spiritual  values  —  though 
they  might  be  supported  from  without  —  had  their  growth 
and  decrease  strictly  in  the  individual  they  animated. 

Still,  he  argued,  a  normal  existence,  a  sense  of  secur 
ity,  would  accomplish  much;  and  they  hung  upon  the 
elimination  of  the  second,  unknown  element  —  the  reason 
for  her  backward  glances,  her  sudden,  loud  banalities, 
yesterday's  mechanical  repudiation  of  his  offered  assist 
ance  and  the  implied  wish  for  him  to  go.  He  said 
gravely : 

"  I  have  been  impatient,  but  you  came  so  sharply  into 
my  empty  existence  that  I  was  upset.  If  you  are  ill  you 
can  cure  yourself.  Never  forget  your  mother's  '  brave 
heart.'  But  there  is  something  objective,  immediate, 
threatening  you.  Tell  me  what  it  is,  Millie,  and  to 
gether  we  will  overcome  and  put  it  away  from  you  for 
ever." 

She  gazed  panic-stricken  into  the  empty  gloom  be 
low.  "No!  no!"  she  exclaimed,  rising.  "You  don't 
know.  I  won't  drag  you  down.  You  must  go  away  at 
once,  tonight,  even  in  the  storm." 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  demanded. 

She  stood  rigidly  erect  with  her  eyes  shut  and  hands 
clasped  at  her  sides.  Then  she  slid  down  upon  the 
box,  lifting  to  him  a  white  mask  of  fright. 

"  It's  Nicholas,"  she  said,  hardly  above  her  breath. 

A  sudden  relief  swept  over  John  Woolfolk.  In  his 
mind  he  dismissed  as  negligible  the  heavy  man  fumbling 
beneath  his  soiled  apron.  He  wondered  how  the  other 
could  have  got  such  a  grip  on  Millie  Slope's  imagina 
tion. 

[66] 


WILD    ORANGES 

The  mystery  that  had  enveloped  her  was  fast  dis 
appearing,  leaving  them  without  an  obstacle  to  the  hap 
piness  he  proposed.  Woolfolk  said  curtly: 

"Has  Nicholas  been  annoying  you?" 

She  shivered,  with  clasped,  straining  hands. 

"He  says  he's  crazy  about  me,"  she  told  him  in  a 
shuddering  voice  that  contracted  his  heart.  "He  says 

that  I  must  —  must  marry  him,  or "  Her  period 

trailed  abruptly  out  to  silence. 

Woolfolk  grew  animated  with  determination,  an  im 
mediate  purpose. 

"Where  would  Nicholas  be  at  this  hour?  "  he  asked. 

She  rose  hastily,  clinging  to  his  arm.  "  You  mustn't," 
she  exclaimed,  yet  not  loudly.  "  You  don't  know !  He 
is  watching  —  something  frightful  would  happen." 

"  Nothing  *  frightful,' "  he  returned  tolerantly,  pre 
paring  to  descend.  "  Only  unfortunate  for  Nicholas." 

"  You  mustn't,"  she  repeated  desperately,  her  sheer 
weight  hanging  from  her  hands  clasped  about  his  neck. 
"  Nicholas  is  not  —  not  human.  There's  something 
funny  about  him.  I  don't  mean  funny,  I " 

He  unclasped  her  fingers  and  quietly  forced  her  back  to 
the  seat  on  the  box.  Then  he  took  a  place  at  her  side. 

"  Now,"  he  asked  reasonably,  "  what  is  this  about 
Nicholas?" 

She  glanced  down  into  the  desolate  cavern  of  the 
store;  the  ghostly  remnant  of  cotton  goods  fluttered  in 
a  draft  like  a  torn  and  grimy  cobweb;  the  lower  floor 
was  palpably  bare. 

"  He  came  in  April,"  she  commenced  in  a  voice  with 
out  any  life.  "  The  woman  we  had  had  for  years  was 

[67] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

dead;  and  when  Nicholas  asked  for  work  we  were  glad 
to  take  him.  He  wanted  the  smallest  possible  wages  and 
was  willing  to  do  everything ;  he  even  cooked  quite  nicely. 
At  first  he  was  jumpy  —  he  had  asked  if  many  strangers 
went  by ;  but  then  when  no  one  appeared  he  got  easier  .  .  . 
He  got  easier  and  began  to  do  extra  things  for  me.  I 
thanked  him  —  until  I  understood.  Then  I  asked  father 
to  send  him  away,  but  he  was  afraid;  and,  before  I 
could  get  up  my  courage  to  do  it,  Nicholas  spoke 

"  He  said  he  was  crazy  about  me,  and  would  I  please 
try  and  be  good  to  him.  He  had  always  wanted  to 
marry,  he  went  on,  and  live  right,  but  things  had  gone 
against  him.  I  told  him  that  he  was  impertinent  and 
that  he  would  have  to  go  at  once;  but  he  cried  and  begged 
me  not  to  say  that,  not  to  get  him  *  started.'  " 

That,  John  Woolfolk  recalled,  was  precisely  what  the 
man  had  said  to  him. 

"  I  went  back  to  father  and  told  him  why  he  must 
send  Nicholas  off,  but  father  nearly  suffocated.  He 
turned  almost  black.  Then  I  got  frightened  and  locked 
myself  in  my  room,  while  Nicholas  sat  out  on  the  stair 
and  sobbed  all  night.  It  was  ghastly!  In  the  morn 
ing  I  had  to  go  down,  and  he  went  about  his  duties  as 
usual.  That  evening  he  spoke  again,  on  the  porch,  twist 
ing  his  hands  exactly  as  if  he  were  making  bread.  He 
repeated  that  he  wanted  me  to  be  nice  to  him.  He  said 
something  wrong  would  happen  if  I  pushed  him  to  it. 

"  I  think  if  he  had  threatened  to  kill  me  it  would 
have  been  more  possible  than  his  hints  and  sobs.  The 
thing  drew  out  to  a  month,  then  six  weeks,  and  nothing 
more  happened.  I  started  again  and  again  to  tell  them 

[68] 


WILD    ORANGES 

at  the  store,  two  miles  back  in  the  pines,  but  I  could 
never  get  away  from  Nicholas ;  he  was  always  at  my  shoul 
der,  muttering  and  twisting  his  hands. 

"  Then  I  found  something."  She  hesitated,  glancing 
once  more  down  through  the  empty  gloom,  while  her 
fingers  swiftly  fumbled  in  the  band  of  her  waist. 

"  I  was  cleaning  his  room  —  it  simply  had  to  be  done 

—  and  had  out  a  bureau  drawer,  when  I  saw  this  un 
derneath.    He  was  not  in  the  house,  and  I  took  one  look 
at  it,  then  put  the  things  back  as  near  as  possible  as  they 
were.     I  was  so  frightened  that  I  slipped  it  in  my  dress 

—  had  no  chance  to  return  it." 

He  took  from  her  unresisting  hand  a  folded  rectangle 
of  coarse  grey  paper;  and,  opening  it,  found  a  small  hand 
bill  with  the  crudely  reproduced  photograph  of  a  man's 
head  with  a  long,  drooping  nose,  sleepy  eyes  in  thick 
folds  of  flesh,  and  a  lax  underlip  with  a  fixed,  dull 
smile: 

WANTED  FOR  MURDER! 

The  authorities  of  Coweta  offer  THREE  HUN 
DRED  DOLLARS  for  the  apprehension  of  the  be 
low,  Iscah  Nicholas,  convicted  of  the  murder  of 
Elizabeth  Slakto,  an  aged  woman. 

General  description:  Age  about  forty-eight. 
Head  receding,  with  large  nose  and  stupid  ex 
pression.  Body  corpulent  but  strong.  Nicho 
las  has  no  trade  and  works  at  general  utility. 
He  is  a  homicidal  maniac. 

WANTED  FOR  MURDER! 
[69] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

"  He  told  me  that  his  name  was  Nicholas  Brandt," 
Millie  noted  in  her  dull  voice. 

A  new  gravity  possessed  John  Woolfolk. 

"  You  must  not  go  back  to  the  house,"  he  decided. 

"  Wait,"  she  replied.  "  I  was  terribly  frightened  when 
he  went  up  to  his  room.  When  he  came  down  he  thanked 
me  for  cleaning  it.  I  told  him  he  was  mistaken,  that  I 
hadn't  been  in  there,  but  I  could  see  he  was  suspicious. 
He  cried  all  the  time  he  was  cooking  dinner,  in  a  queer, 
choked  way;  and  afterward  touched  me  —  on  the  arm. 
I  swam,  but  all  the  water  in  the  bay  wouldn't  take  away 
the  feel  of  his  fingers.  Then  I  saw  the  boat  —  you  came 
ashore. 

"  Nicholas  was  dreadfully  upset,  and  hid  in  the  pines 
for  a  day  or  more.  He  told  me  if  I  spoke  of  him  it 
would  happen,  and  if  I  left  it  would  happen  —  to  father. 
Then  he  came  back.  He  said  that  you  were  —  were  in 
love  with  me,  and  that  I  must  send  you  away.  He  added 
that  you  must  go  away  today,  for  he  couldn't  stand 
waiting  any  more.  He  said  that  he  wanted  to  be  right, 
but  that  things  were  against  him.  This  morning  he  got 
dreadful  —  if  I  fooled  him  he'd  get  you,  and  me,  too,  and 
then  there  was  always  father  for  something  special  extra. 
That,  he  warned  me,  would  happen  if  I  stayed  away  for 
more  than  an  hour."  She  rose,  trembling  violently. 
"  Perhaps  it's  been  an  hour  now.  I  must  go  back." 

John  Woolfolk  thought  rapidly;  his  face  was  grim.  If 
he  had  brought  a  pistol  from  the  ketch  he  would  have  shot 
Iscah  Nicholas  without  hesitation.  Unarmed,  he  was 
reluctant  to  precipitate  a  crisis  with  such  serious  possibili- 

[70] 


WILD    ORANGES 

ties.  He  could  secure  one  from  the  Gar,  but  even  that 
short  lapse  of  time  might  prove  fatal  —  to  Millie  or 
Lichfield  Stope.  Millie's  story  was  patently  fact  in  every 
detail.  He  thought  more  rapidly  still  —  desperately. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  repeated,  her  words  lost  in  a 
sudden  blast  of  wind  under  the  dilapidated  roof. 

He  saw  that  she  was  right. 

"  Very  well,"  he  acquiesced.  "  Tell  him  that  you  saw 
me,  and  that  I  promised  to  go  tonight.  Act  quietly;  say 
that  you  have  been  upset,  but  that  you  will  give  him  an 
answer  tomorrow.  Then  at  eight  o'clock  —  it  will  be 
dark  early  tonight  —  walk  out  to  the  wharf.  That  is 
all.  But  it  must  be  done  without  any  hesitation;  you 
must  be  even  cheerful,  kinder  to  him." 

He  was  thinking:  she  must  be  out  of  the  way  when 
I  meet  Nicholas.  She  must  not  be  subjected  to  the 
ordeal  that  will  release  her  from  the  dread,  fast  crushing 
her  spirit. 

She  swayed,  and  he  caught  her,  held  her  upright, 
circled  in  his  steady  arms. 

"  Don't  let  him  hurt  us,"  she  gasped.     "  Oh,  don't!  " 

"  Not  now,"  he  reassured  her.  "  Nicholas  is  finished. 
But  you  must  help  by  doing  exactly  as  I  have  told  you. 
You'd  better  go  on.  It  won't  be  long,  hardly  three  hours, 
until  freedom." 

She  laid  her  cold  cheek  against  his  face,  while  her 
arms  crept  round  his  neck.  She  said  nothing ;  and  he  held 
her  to  him  with  a  sudden  throb  of  feeling.  They  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  deepening  gloom,  bound  in  a  strain 
ing  embrace,  while  the  rats  gnawed  in  the  crazy  walls  of 

[71] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

the  store  and  the  storm  thrashed  without.  Then  she  re 
luctantly  descended  the  stair,  crossed  the  broken  floor 
and  disappeared  through  the  gap  of  the  door. 

A  sudden  unwillingness  to  have  her  return  alone  to 
the  sobbing  menace  of  Iscah  Nicholas,  the  impotent  wraith 
that  had  been  Lichfield  Stope,  carried  him  in  an  impetu 
ous  stride  to  the  stair.  But  there  he  halted.  The  plan  he 
had  evolved  held,  in  its  simplicity,  a  larger  measure  of 
safety  than  any  immediate,  unconsidered  course. 

John  Woolfolk  waited  until  she  had  had  time  to  enter 
the  orange  grove,  then  he  followed,  turning  toward  the 
beach. 

He  found  Halvard  already  at  the  sand's  edge,  waiting 
uneasily  with  the  tender,  and  they  crossed  the  broken 
water  to  where  the  Gar's  cabin  flung  out  a  remote,  peace 
ful  light 

X 

The  sailor  immediately  set  about  his  familiar,  homely 
tasks,  while  Woolfolk  made  a  minute  inspection  of  the 
ketch's  rigging.  He  descended  to  supper  with  an  ex 
pression  of  abstraction,  and  ate  mechanically  whatever 
was  placed  before  him.  Afterward  he  rolled  a  cigarette, 
which  he  neglected  to  light,  and  sat  motionless,  chin  on 
breast,  in  the  warm  stillness. 

Halvard  cleared  the  table  and  John  Woolfolk  roused 
himself.  He  turned  to  the  shelf  that  ran  above  the 
berths  and  secured  a  small,  locked  tin  box.  For  an  hour 
or  more  he  was  engaged  alternately  writing  and  care 
fully  reading  various  papers  sealed  with  vermilion  wafers. 
Then  he  called  Halvard. 

[72] 


WILD    ORANGES 

"  I'll  get  you  to  witness  these  signatures,"  he  said, 
rising.  Poul  Halvard  hesitated;  then,  with  a  furrowed 
brow,  clumsily  grasped  the  pen.  "  Here,"  Woolfolk  in 
dicated.  The  man  wrote  slowly,  linking  fortuitously 
the  unsteady  letters  of  his  name.  This  arduous  task  ac 
complished,  he  immediately  rose.  John  Woolfolk  again 
took  his  place,  turning  to  address  the  other,  when  he  saw 
that  one  side  of  Halyard's  face  was  bluish  and  rapidly 
swelling. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  jaw?  "  he  promptly  in 
quired. 

Halvard  avoided  his  gaze,  obviously  reluctant  to  speak, 
but  Woolfolk's  silent  interrogation  was  insistent.  Then: 

"  I  met  that  Nicholas,"  Halvard  admitted;  "  without  a 
knife." 

"Well?"  Woolfolk  insisted. 

"  There's  something  wrong  with  this  cursed  place," 
Halvard  said  defiantly.  "  You  can  laugh,  but  there's  a 
matter  in  the  air  that's  not  natural.  My  grandmother 
could  have  named  it.  She  heard  the  ravens  that  called 
Tollf sen's  death,  and  read  Linga's  eyes  before  she 
strangulated  herself.  Anyhow,  when  you  didn't  come 
back  I  got  doubtful  and  took  the  tender  in.  Then  I  saw 
Nicholas  beating  up  through  the  bushes,  hiding  here  and 
there,  and  doubling  through  the  grass;  so  I  came  on  him 
from  the  back  and  —  and  kicked  him,  quite  sudden. 

"  He  went  on  his  hands,  but  got  up  quick  for  a  hulk 
like  himself.  Sir,  this  is  hard  to  believe,  but  it's  Biblical 
—  he  didn't  take  any  more  notice  of  the  kick  than  if  it 
had  been  a  flag  halyard  brushed  against  him.  He  said 
*  Go  away/  and  waved  his  foolish  hands. 

[73] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

"  I  closed  in,  still  careful  of  the  knife,  with  a  remark, 
and  got  onto  his  heart.  He  only  coughed  and  kept  telling 
me  in  a  crying  whisper  to  go  away.  Nicholas  pushed  me 
back  —  that's  how  I  got  this  face.  What  was  the  use? 
I  might  as  well  have  hit  a  pudding.  Even  talk  didn't 
move  him.  In  a  little  it  sent  me  cold."  He  stopped  ab 
ruptly,  grew  sullen;  it  was  evident  that  he  would  say  no 
more  in  that  direction.  Woolfolk  opened  another  subject: 

"Life,  Halvard,"  he  said,  "is  uncertain;  perhaps  to 
night  I  shall  find  it  absolutely  unreliable.  What  I  am 
getting  at  is  this:  if  anything  happens  to  me  —  death,  to  be 
accurate  —  the  Gar  is  yours,  the  ketch  and  a  sum  of 
money.  It  is  secured  to  you  in  this  box,  which  you  will 
deliver  to  my  address  in  Boston.  There  is  another  provi 
sion  that  I'll  mention  merely  to  give  you  the  opportunity 
to  repeat  it  verbally  from  my  lips:  the  bulk  of  anything  I 
have,  in  the  possibility  we  are  considering,  will  go  to  a 
Miss  Stope,  the  daughter  of  Lichfield  Stope,  formerly  of 
Virginia."  He  stood  up.  "Halvard,"  Woolfolk  said 
abruptly,  extending  his  hand,  expressing  for  the  first  time 
his  repeated  thought,  "  you  are  a  good  man.  You  are 
the  only  steady  quantity  I  have  ever  known.  I  have  paid 
you  for  a  part  of  this,  but  the  most  is  beyond  dollars. 
That  I  am  now  acknowledging." 

Halvard  was  cruelly  embarrassed.  He  waited,  obvi 
ously  desiring  a  chance  to  retreat,  and  Woolfolk  con 
tinued  in  a  different  vein: 

"  I  want  the  canvas  division  rigged  across  the  cabin  and 
three  berths  made.  Then  get  the  yacht  ready  to  go  out 
at  any  time." 

One  thing  more  remained;  and,  going  deeper  into  the 
[74] 


WILD     ORANGES 

tin  box,  John  Woolfolk  brought  out  a  packet  of  square 
envelopes  addressed  to  him  in  a  faded,  angular  hand. 
They  were  all  that  remained  now  of  his  youth,  of  the 
past.  Not  a  ghost,  not  a  remembered  fragrance  nor  accent, 
rose  from  the  delicate  paper.  They  had  been  the  property 
of  a  man  dead  twelve  years  ago,  slain  by  incomprehensi 
ble  mischance;  and  the  man  in  the  contracted  cabin,  vibrat 
ing  from  the  elemental  and  violent  forces  without,  forebore 
to  open  them.  He  burned  the  packet  to  a  blackish  ash 
on  a  plate. 

It  was,  he  saw  from  the  chronometer,  seven  o'clock;  and 
he  rose  charged  with  tense  energy,  engaged  in  activities 
of  a  far  different  order.  He  unwrapped  from  many  folds 
of  oiled  silk  a  flat,  amorphous  pistol,  uglier  in  its  bleak 
outline  than  the  familiar  weapons  of  more  graceful  days; 
and,  sliding  into  place  a  filled  cartridge  clik,  he  threw 
a  load  into  the  barrel.  This  he  deposited  in  the  pocket 
of  a  black  wool  jacket,  closely  buttoned  about  his  long, 
hard  body,  and  went  up  on  deck. 

Halvard,  in  a  glistening,  yellow  coat,  came  close  up  to 
him,  speaking  with  the  wind  whipping  the  words  from  his 
lips.  He  said:  "  She's  ready,  sir." 

For  a  moment  Woolfolk  made  no  answer;  he  stood 
gazing  anxiously  into  the  dark  that  enveloped  and  hid 
Millie  Stope  from  him.  There  was  another  darkness 
about  her,  thicker  than  the  mere  night,  like  a  black  cere 
ment  dropping  over  her  soul.  His  eyes  narrowed  as  he 
replied  to  the  sailor: 

"Good!" 


[75] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 


XI 

John  Wool  folk  peered  through  the  night  toward  the 
land. 

"  Put  me  ashore  beyond  the  point,"  he  told  Halvard; 
"  at  a  half-sunk  wharf  on  the  sea." 

The  sailor  secured  the  tender;  and,  dropping  into  it, 
held  the  small  boat  steady  while  Wool  folk  followed. 
With  a  vigorous  push  they  fell  away  from  the  Gar.  Hal- 
vard's  oars  struck  the  water  smartly  and  forced  the  tender 
forward  into  the  beating  wind.  They  made  a  choppy 
passage  to  the  rim  of  the  bay,  where,  turning,  they  fol 
lowed  the  thin,  pale  glimmer  of  the  broken  water  on  the 
land's  edge.  Halvard  pulled  with  short,  telling  strokes, 
his  oarblades  stirring  into  momentary  being  livid  blurs 
of  phosphorescence. 

John  Wool  folk  guided  the  boat  about  the  point  where 
he  had  first  seen  Millie  swimming.  He  recalled  how 
strange  her  unexpected  appearance  had  seemed.  It  had, 
however,  been  no  stranger  than  the  actuality  which  had 
driven  her  into  the  bay  in  the  effort  to  cleanse  the  stain  of 
Iscah  Nicholas'  touch.  Woolfolk's  face  hardened;  he 
was  suddenly  conscious  of  the  cold  weight  in  his  pocket 
He  realized  that  he  would  kill  Nicholas  at  the  first  op 
portunity  and  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

The  tender  passed  about  the  point,  and  he  could 
hear  more  clearly  the  sullen  clamor  of  the  waves  on  the 
seaward  bars.  The  patches  of  green  sky  had  grown  larger, 
the  clouds  swept  by  with  the  apparent  menace  of  solid, 
flying  objects.  The  land  lay  in  a  low,  formless  mass  on 

[76] 


WILD    ORANGES 

the  left.  It  appeared  secretive,  a  masked  place  of  evil. 
Its  influence  reached  out  and  subtly  touched  John  Wool- 
folk's  heart  with  the  premonition  of  base  treacheries. 
The  tormented  trees  had  the  sound  of  Iscah  Nicholas 
sobbing.  He  must  take  Millie  away  immediately;  banish 
its  last  memory  from  her  mind,  its  influence  from  her 
soul.  It  was  the  latter  he  always  feared,  which  formed 
his  greatest  hazard  —  to  tear  from  her  the  invidious  ten 
drils  of  the  blighting  past. 

The  vague  outline  of  the  ruined  wharf  swam  forward, 
and  the  tender  slid  into  the  comparative  quiet  of  its  par 
tial  protection. 

"  Make  fast,"  Woolfolk  directed.  "  I  shall  be  out  of 
the  boat  for  a  while.'*  He  hesitated;  then:  "Miss 
Stope  will  be  here;  and  if,  after  an  hour,  you  hear  noth 
ing  from  me,  take  her  out  to  the  ketch  for  the  night.  In 
sist  on  her  going.  If  you  hear  nothing  from  me  still,  make 
the  first  town  and  report." 

He  mounted  by  a  cross  pinning  to  the  insecure  surface 
above;  and,  picking  his  way  to  solid  earth,  waited.  He 
struck  a  match  and,  covering  the  light  with  his  palm,  saw 
that  it  was  ten  minutes  before  eight.  Millie,  he  had 
thought,  would  reach  the  wharf  before  the  hour  he  had 
indicated.  She  would  not  at  any  cost  be  late. 

The  night  was  impenetrable.  Halvard  was  as  ab 
solutely  lost  as  if  he  had  dropped,  with  all  the  world  save 
the  bare,  wet  spot  where  Woolfolk  stood,  into  a  nether 
region  from  which  floated  up  great,  shuddering  gasps  of 
agony.  He  followed  this  idea  more  minutely,  picturing 
the  details  of  such  a  terrestrial  calamity,  then  he  put  it 
from  him  with  an  oath.  Black  thoughts  crept  insidiously 

[77] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

into  his  mind  like  rats  in  a  cellar.  He  had  ordinarily 
a  rigidly  disciplined  brain,  an  incisive  logic,  and  he  was 
disturbed  by  the  distorted  visions  that  came  to  him  un- 
bid.  He  wished,  in  a  momentary  panic,  instantly  sup 
pressed,  that  he  was  safely  away  with  Millie  in  the  ketch. 

He  was  becoming  hysterical,  he  told  himself  with  com 
pressed  lips  —  no  better  than  Lichfield  Stope.  The  latter 
rose  greyly  in  his  memory,  and  fled  across  the  sea,  a 
phantom  body  pulsing  with  a  veined  fire  like  that  stirred 
from  the  nocturnal  bay.  He  again  consulted  his  watch, 
and  said  aloud,  incredulously:  "  Five  minutes  past 
eight."  The  inchoate  crawling  of  his  thoughts  changed 
to  an  acute,  tangible  doubt,  a  mounting  dread. 

He  rehearsed  the  details  of  his  plan,  tried  it  at  every 
turning.  It  had  seemed  to  him  at  the  moment  of  its  evolv 
ing  the  best  —  no,  the  only  — "thing  to  do,  and  it  was  still 
without  obvious  fault.  Some  trivial  happening,  an  un 
foreseen  need  of  her  father's,  had  delayed  Millie  for  a 
minute  or  two.  But  the  minutes  increased  and  she  did 
not  appear.  All  his  conflicting  emotions  merged  into 
a  cold  passion  of  anger.  He  would  kill  Nicholas  with 
out  a  word's  preliminary.  The  time  drew  out,  Millie  did 
not  materialize,  and  his  anger  sank  to  the  realization  of 
appalling  possibilities. 

He  decided  that  he  would  wait  no  longer.  In  the  act  of 
moving  forward  he  thought  he  heard,  rising  thinly  against 
the  fluctuating  wind,  a  sudden  cry.  He  stopped  auto 
matically,  listening  with  every  nerve,  but  there  was  no 
repetition  of  the  uncertain  sound.  As  Wool  folk  swiftly 
considered  it  he  was  possessed  by  the  feeling  that  he  had 
not  heard  the  cry  with  his  actual  ear  but  with  a  deeper, 

[78] 


WILD    ORANGES 

more  unaccountable  sense.  He  went  forward  in  a  blind 
rush,  feeling  with  extended  hands  for  the  opening  in  the 
tangle,  groping  a  stumbling  way  through  the  close  dark 
of  the  matted  trees.  He  fell  over  an  exposed  root,  blun 
dered  into  a  chill,  wet  trunk,  and  finally  emerged  at  the 
side  of  the  desolate  mansion.  Here  his  way  led  through 
saw  grass,  waist  high,  and  the  blades  cut  at  him  like 
lithe,  vindictive  knives.  No  light  showed  from  the  face 
of  the  house  toward  him,  and  he  came  abruptly  against 
the  bay  window  of  the  dismantled  billiard  room. 

A  sudden  caution  arrested  him  —  the  sound  of  his 
approach  might  precipitate  a  catastrophe,  and  he  cau 
tiously  felt  his  passage  about  the  house  to  the  portico. 
The  steps  creaked  beneath  his  careful  tread,  but  the  noise 
was  lost  in  the  wind.  At  first  he  could  see  no  light;  the 
hall  door,  he  discovered,  was  closed;  then  he  was  aware  of 
a  faint  glimmer  seeping  through  a  drawn  window  shade 
on  one  side.  From  without  he  could  distinguish  nothing. 
He  listened,  but  not  a  sound  rose.  The  stillness  was  more 
ominous  than  cries. 

John  Woolfolk  took  the  pistol  from  his  pocket  and, 
automatically  releasing  the  safety,  moved  to  the  door, 
opening  it  with  his  left  hand.  The  hall  was  unlighted; 
he  could  feel  the  pressure  of  the  darkness  above.  The 
dank  silence  flowed  over  him  like  chill  water  rising  above 
his  heart.  He  turned,  and  a  dim  thread  of  light,  show 
ing  through  the  chink  of  a  partly  closed  doorway,  led 
him  swiftly  forward.  He  paused  a  moment  before  en 
tering,  shrinking  from  what  might  be  revealed  beyond, 
and  then  flung  the  door  sharply  open. 

His  pistol  was  directed  at  a  low-trimmed  lamp  in  a 
[79] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

chamber  empty  of  all  life.  He  saw  a  row  of  large,  black 
portfolios  on  low  supports,  a  sewing  bag  spilled  its  con 
tents  from  a  chair,  a  table  bore  a  tin  tobacco  jar  and  the 
empty  skin  of  a  plantain.  Then  his  gaze  rested  upon  the 
floor,  on  a  thin,  inanimate  body  in  crumpled  alpaca 
trousers  and  dark  jacket,  with  a  peaked,  congested  face 
upturned  toward  the  pale  light.  It  was  Lichfield  Stope 
—  dead. 

Wool  folk  bent  over  him,  searching  for  a  mark  of 
violence,  for  the  cause  of  the  other's  death.  At  first  he 
found  nothing;  then,  as  he  moved  the  body  —  its  light 
ness  came  to  him  as  a  shock  —  he  saw  that  one  fragile  arm 
had  been  twisted  and  broken;  the  hand  hung  like  a  with 
ered  autumn  leaf  from  its  circular  cuff  fastened  with  the 
mosaic  button.  That  was  all. 

He  straightened  up  sharply,  with  his  pistol  levelled  at 
the  door.  But  there  had  been  no  sound  other  than  that  of 
the  wind  plucking  at  the  old  tin  roof,  rattling  the  shrunken 
frames  of  the  windows.  Lichfield  Stope  had  fallen  back 
with  his  countenance  lying  on  a  doubled  arm,  as  if  he  were 
attempting  to  hide  from  his  extinguished  gaze  the  horror 
of  his  end.  The  lamp  was  of  the  common,  glass  variety, 
without  shade;  and,  in  a  sudden  eddy  of  air,  it  flickered, 
threatened  to  go  out,  and  a  thin  ribbon  of  smoke  swept  up 
against  the  chimney  and  vanished. 

On  the  wall  was  a  wide,  stipple  print  of  the  early  nine 
teenth  century  —  the  smooth  sward  of  a  village  glebe 
surrounded  by  the  low,  stone  walls  of  ancient  dwellings, 
with  a  timbered  inn  behind  broad  oaks  and  a  swinging 
sign.  It  was  —  in  the  print  —  serenely  evening,  and  long 

[80] 


WILD     ORANGES 

shadows  slipped  out  through  an  ambient  glow.  Wool  folk, 
with  pistol  elevated,  became  suddenly  conscious  of  the 
withdrawn  scene,  and  for  a  moment  its  utter  peace  held 
him  spellbound.  It  was  another  world,  for  the  security, 
the  unattainable  repose  of  which,  he  longed  with  a  pas 
sionate  bitterness. 

The  wind  shifted  its  direction  and  beat  upon  the  front 
of  the  house;  a  different  set  of  windows  rattled,  and  the 
blast  swept  compact  and  cold  up  through  the  blank  hall. 
John  Woolfolk  cursed  his  inertia  of  mind,  and  once  more 
addressed  the  profound,  tragic  mystery  that  surrounded 
him. 

He  thought :  Nicholas  has  gone  —  with  Millie.  Or  per 
haps  he  has  left  her  —  in  some  dark,  upper  space.  A 
maddening  sense  of  impotence  settled  upon  him.  If  the 
man  had  taken  Millie  out  into  the  night  he  had  no  chance 
of  following,  finding  them.  Impenetrable  screens  of 
bushes  lay  on  every  hand,  with,  behind  them,  mile  after 
mile  of  shrouded  pine  woods. 

His  plan  had  gone  terribly  amiss,  with  possibilities 
which  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  face.  All  that  had 
happened  before  in  his  life,  and  which  had  seemed  so  in 
supportable  at  the  time,  faded  to  insignificance.  Shud 
dering  waves  of  horror  swept  over  him.  He  raised  his 
hand  unsteadily,  drew  it  across  his  brow,  and  it  came  away 
dripping  wet.  He  was  oppressed  by  the  feeling  familiar 
in  evil  dreams  —  of  gazing  with  leaden  limbs  at  deliber 
ate,  unspeakable  acts. 

He  shook  off  the  numbness  of  dread.  He  must  act  — 
at  once!  How?  A  thousand  men  could  not  find  Iscah 

[81] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

Nicholas  in  the  confused  darkness  without.  To  raise 
the  scattered  and  meager  neighborhood  would  consume 
an  entire  day. 

The  wind  agitated  a  rocking  chair  in  the  hall,  an 
erratic  creaking  responded,  and  Woolfolk  started  forward, 
and  stopped  as  he  heard  and  then  identified  the  noise. 
This,  he  told  himself,  would  not  do;  the  hysteria  was 
creeping  over  him  again.  He  shook  his  shoulders,  wiped 
his  palm  and  took  a  fresh  grip  on  the  pistol. 

Then  from  above  came  the  heavy,  unmistakable  fall 
of  a  foot.  It  was  not  repeated;  the  silence  spread  once 
more,  broken  only  from  without.  But  there  was  no  pos 
sibility  of  mistake,  there  had  been  no  subtlety  in  the  sound 
—  a  slow  foot  had  moved,  a  heavy  body  had  shifted. 

At  this  actuality  a  new  determination  seized  him;  he 
was  conscious  of  a  feeling  that  almost  resembled  joy,  an 
immeasurable  relief  at  the  prospect  of  action  and  retalia 
tion.  He  took  up  the  lamp,  held  it  elevated  while  he 
advanced  to  the  door  with  ready  pistol.  There,  however, 
he  stopped,  realizing  the  mark  he  would  present  moving, 
conveniently  illuminated,  up  the  stair.  The  floor  above 
was  totally  unknown  to  him;  at  any  turning  he  might  be 
surprised,  overcome,  rendered  useless.  He  had  a  supreme 
purpose  to  perform.  He  had  already,  perhaps  fatally, 
erred,  and  there  must  be  no  further  misstep. 

John  Woolfolk  realized  that  he  must  go  upstairs  in  the 
dark,  or  with,  at  most,  in  extreme  necessity,  a  fleeting 
and  guarded  matchlight.  This,  too,  since  he  would  be 
entirely  without  knowledge  of  his  surroundings,  would  be 
inconvenient,  perhaps  impossible.  He  must  try.  He  put 
the  lamp  back  upon  the  table,  moving  it  farther  out  of  the 

[82] 


WILD     ORANGES 

eddy  from  the  door,  where  it  would  stay  lighted  against  a 
possible,  pressing  need.  Then  he  moved  from  the  wan 
radiance  into  the  night  of  the  hall. 

XII 

He  formed  in  his  mind  the  general  aspect  of  the  house: 
its  width  faced  the  orange  grove,  the  stair  mounted  on 
the  hall's  right,  back  of  which  a  door  gave  to  the  billiard 
room;  on  the  left  was  the  chamber  of  the  lamp,  and 
that,  he  had  seen,  opened  into  a  room  behind,  while 
the  kitchen  wing,  carried  to  a  chamber  above,  had  been 
obviously  added.  It  was  probable  that  he  would  find  the 
same  general  arrangement  on  the  second  floor.  The  hall 
would  be  smaller,  a  space  inclosed  for  a  bath,  and  a 
means  of  ascent  to  the  roof. 

John  Wool  folk  mounted  the  stair  quickly  and  as  silently 
as  possible,  placing  his  feet  squarely  on  the  body  of  the 
steps.  At  the  top  the  handrail  disappeared;  and,  with 
his  back  to  a  plaster  wall,  he  moved  until  he  encountered 
a  closed  door.  That  interior  was  above  the  billiard 
room ;  it  was  on  the  opposite  floor  he  had  heard  the  footfall, 
and  he  was  certain  that  no  one  had  crossed  the  hall  or 
closed  a  door.  He  continued,  following  the  dank  wall. 
At  places  the  plaster  had  fallen,  and  his  fingers  en 
countered  the  bare  skeleton  of  the  house.  Farther  on  he 
narrowly  escaped  knocking  down  a  heavily  framed  pic 
ture —  another,  he  thought,  of  Lichfield  Stope's  mezzo 
tints —  but  he  caught  it,  left  it  hanging  crazily  awry. 

He  passed  an  open  door,  recognized  the  bathroom  from 
the  flat  odor  of  chlorides,  reached  an  angle  of  the  wall 

[83] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

and  proceeded  with  renewed  caution.  Next  he  en 
countered  the  cold  panes  of  a  window  and  then  found  the 
entrance  to  the  room  above  the  kitchen. 

He  stopped  —  it  was  barely  possible  that  the  sound 
he  heard  had  echoed  from  here.  He  revolved  the  wisdom 
of  a  match,  but  —  he  had  progressed  very  well  so  far 
—  decided  in  the  negative.  One  aspect  of  the  situation 
troubled  him  greatly  —  the  absence  of  any  sound  or 
warning  from  Millie.  It  was  highly  improbable  that 
his  entrance  to  the  house  had  been  unnoticed.  The  con 
trary  was  likely  —  that  his  sudden  appearance  had  driven 
Nicholas  above. 

Woolfolk  started  forward  more  hurriedly,  urged  by  his 
increasing  apprehension,  when  his  foot  went  into  the 
opening  of  a  depressed  step  and  flung  him  sharply  for 
ward.  In  his  instinctive  effort  to  avoid  falling  the  pistol 
dropped  clattering  into  the  darkness.  A  sudden,  choked 
cry  sounded  beside  him,  and  a  heavy,  enveloping  body 
fell  on  his  back.  This  sent  him  reeling  against  the  wall, 
where  he  felt  the  muscles  of  an  unwieldy  arm  tighten 
about  his  neck. 

John  Woolfolk  threw  himself  back,  when  a  wrist  heav 
ily  struck  his  shoulder  and  a  jarring  blow  fell  upon  the 
wall.  The  hand,  he  knew,  had  held  a  knife,  for  he  could 
feel  it  groping  desperately  over  the  plaster,  and  he  put 
all  his  strength  into  an  effort  to  drag  his  assailant  into 
the  middle  of  the  floor. 

It  was  impossible  now  to  recover  his  pistol,  but  he 
would  make  it  difficult  for  Nicholas  to  get  the  knife.  The 
struggle  in  that  way  was  equalized.  He  turned  in  the 
gripping  arms  about  him  and  the  men  were  chest  to  chest. 

[84] 


WILD    ORANGES 

Neither  spoke;  each  fought  solely  to  get  the  other  pros 
trate,  while  Nicholas  developed  a  secondary  pressure  to 
ward  the  blade  buried  in  the  wall.  This  Woolfolk  suc 
cessfully  blocked.  In  the  supreme  effort  to  bring  the 
struggle  to  a  decisive  end  neither  dealt  the  other  minor  in 
juries.  There  were  no  blows  —  nothing  but  the  strain 
ing  pull  of  arms,  the  sudden  weight  of  bodies,  the  cun 
ning  twisting  of  legs.  They  fought  swiftly,  whirling  and 
staggering  from  place  to  place. 

The  hot  breath  of  an  invisible,  gaping  mouth  beat  upon 
Woolfolk's  cheek.  He  was  an  exceptionally  powerful 
man.  His  spare  body  had  been  hardened  by  its  years  of 
exposure  to  the  elements,  in  the  constant  labor  he  had 
expended  on  the  ketch,  the  long  contests  with  adverse 
winds  and  seas,  and  he  had  little  doubt  of  his  issuing 
successful  from  the  present  crisis.  Iscah  Nicholas,  though 
his  strength  was  beyond  question,  was  heavy  and  slow. 
Yet  the  latter  was  struggling  with  surprising  agility. 
He  was  animated  by  a  convulsive  energy,  a  volcanic  out 
burst  characteristic  of  the  obsession  of  monomania. 

The  strife  continued  for  an  astonishing,  an  absurd 
length  of  time.  Woolfolk  became  infuriated  at  his  in 
ability  to  bring  it  to  an  end,  and  he  expended  an  even 
increasing  effort.  Nicholas'  arms  were  about  his  chest; 
he  was  endeavoring  by  sheer  compression  to  crush  Wool- 
folk's  opposition,  when  the  latter  injected  his  mounting 
wrath  into  the  conflict.  They  spun  in  the  open  like  a 
grotesque  human  top,  and  fell.  Woolfolk  was  momen 
tarily  underneath,  but  he  twisted  lithely  uppermost.  He 
felt  a  heavy,  blunt  hand  leave  his  arm  and  feel,  in  the 
dark,  for  his  face.  Its  purpose  was  to  spoil,  and  he 

[85] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

caught  it  and  savagely  bent  it  down  and  back,  but  a 
cruel  forcing  of  his  leg  defeated  his  purpose. 

This,  he  realized,  could  not  go  on  indefinitely;  one  or 
the  other  would  soon  weaken.  An  insidious  doubt  of  his 
ultimate  victory  lodged  like  a  burr  in  his  brain.  Nicholas' 
strength  was  inhuman;  it  increased  rather  than  waned. 
He  was  growing  vindictive  in  a  petty  way  —  he  tore  at 
Woolfolk's  throat,  dug  the  flesh  from  his  lower  arm. 
Thereafter  warm  and  gummy  blood  made  John  Woolfolk's 
grip  insecure. 

The  doubt  of  his  success  grew;  he  fought  more  desper 
ately.  His  thoughts,  which  till  now  had  been  clear,  logi 
cally  aloof,  were  blurred  in  blind  spurts  of  passion.  His 
mentality  gradually  deserted  him ;  he  reverted  to  lower  and 
lower  types  of  the  human  animal;  during  the  accumulat 
ing  seconds  of  the  strife  he  swung  back  through  count 
less  centuries  to  the  primitive,  snarling  brute.  His  shirt 
was  torn  from  a  shoulder,  and  he  felt  the  sweating,  bare 
skin  of  his  opponent  pressed  against  him. 

The  conflict  continued  without  diminishing.  He 
struggled  once  more  to  his  feet,  with  Nicholas,  and  they 
exchanged  battering  blows,  dealt  necessarily  at  random. 
Sometimes  his  arm  swept  violently  through  mere  space, 
at  others  his  fist  landed  with  a  satisfying  shock  on  the 
body  of  his  antagonist.  The  dark  was  occasionally 
crossed  by  flashes  before  Woolfolk's  smitten  eyes,  but  no 
actual  light  pierced  the  profound  night  of  the  upper  hall. 
At  times  their  struggle  grew  audible,  smacking  blows  fell 
sharply,  but  there  was  no  other  sound  except  that  of  the 
wind  tearing  at  the  sashes,  thundering  dully  in  the  loose 
tin  roof,  rocking  the  dwelling. 

[86] 


WILD     ORANGES 

They  fell  again,  and  equally  their  efforts  slackened, 
their  grips  became  more  feeble.  Finally,  as  if  by  com 
mon  consent,  they  rolled  apart.  A  leaden  tide  of  apathy 
crept  over  Woolfolk's  battered  body,  folded  his  aching 
brain.  He  listened  in  a  sort  of  indifferent  attention  to 
the  tempestuous  breathing  of  Iscah  Nicholas.  John  Wool- 
folk  wondered  dully  were  Millie  was.  There  had  been  no 
sign  of  her  since  he  had  fallen  into  the  step  and  she  had 
cried  out.  Perhaps  she  was  dead  from  fright.  He  con 
sidered  this  possibility  in  a  hazy,  detached  manner.  She 
would  be  better  dead  —  if  he  failed. 

He  heard,  with  little  interest,  a  stirring  on  the  floor 
beside  him,  and  thought  with  an  overwhelming  weariness 
and  distaste  that  the  strife  was  to  commence  once  more. 
But,  curiously,  Nicholas  moved  away  from  him.  Wool- 
folk  was  glad ;  and  then  he  was  puzzled  for  a  moment  by 
the  sliding  of  hands  over  an  invisible  wall.  He  slowly 
realized  that  the  other  was  groping  for  the  knife  he  had 
buried  in  the  plaster.  John  Woolfolk  considered  a  similar 
search  for  the  pistol  he  had  dropped ;  he  might  even  light 
a  match.  It  was  a  rather  wonderful  weapon  and  would 
spray  lead  like  a  hose  of  water.  He  would  like  ex 
ceedingly  well  to  have  it  in  his  hand  with  Nicholas  be 
fore  him. 

Then  in  a  sudden  mental  illumination  he  realized  the 
extreme  peril  of  the  moment;  and,  lurching  to  his  feet,  he 
again  threw  himself  on  the  other. 

The  struggle  went  on,  apparently  to  infinity;  it  was 
less  vigorous  now;  the  blows,  for  the  most  part,  were 
impotent.  Iscah  Nicholas  never  said  a  word;  and  fan 
tastic  thoughts  wheeled  through  Woolfolk's  brain.  He 

[87] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

lost  all  sense  of  the  identity  of  his  opponent  and  became 
convinced  that  he  was  combating  an  impersonal  hulk  — 
the  thing  that  gasped  and  smeared  his  face,  that  strove 
to  end  him,  was  the  embodied  and  evil  spirit  of  the  place, 
a  place  that  even  Halvard  had  seen  was  damnably  wrong. 
He  questioned  if  such  a  force  could  be  killed,  if  a  being 
materialized  from  the  outer  dark  could  be  stopped  by  a 
pistol  of  even  the  latest,  most  ingenious  mechanism. 

They  fell  and  rose,  and  fell.  Woolfolk's  fingers  were 
twisted  in  a  damp  lock  of  hair;  they  came  away  —  with 
the  hair.  He  moved  to  his  knees,  and  the  other  followed. 
For  a  moment  they  rested  face  to  face,  with  arms  limply 
clasped  about  the  opposite  shoulders.  Then  they  turned 
over  on  the  floor;  they  turned  once  more,  and  suddenly 
the  darkness  was  empty  beneath  John  Woolfolk.  He  fell 
down  and  down,  beating  his  head  on  a  series  of  sharp 
edges;  while  a  second,  heavy  body  fell  with  him,  by 
turns  under  and  above. 


XIII 

He  rose  with  the  ludicrous  alacrity  of  a  man  who  had 
taken  a  public  and  awkward  misstep.  The  wan  lamp 
light,  diffused  from  within,  made  just  visible  the  bulk  that 
had  descended  with  him.  It  lay  without  motion,  sprawl 
ing  upon  a  lower  step  and  the  floor.  John  Woolfolk 
moved  backward  from  it,  his  hand  behind  him,  feeling 
for  the  entrance  to  the  lighted  room.  He  shifted  his 
feet  carefully,  for  the  darkness  was  wheeling  about  him 
in  visible  black  rings  streaked  with  palest  orange  as  he 
passed  into  the  room. 

[88] 


WILD    ORANGES 

Here  objects,  dimensions  became  normally  placed,  rec 
ognizable.  He  saw  the  mezzotint  with  its  sere  and  sunny 
peace,  the  portfolios  on  their  stands,  like  grotesque  and 
flattened  quadrupeds,  and  Lichfield  Stope  on  the  floor,  still 
hiding  his  dead  face  in  the  crook  of  his  arm. 

He  saw  these  things,  remembered  them,  and  yet  now 
they  had  new  significance  —  they  oozed  a  sort  of  vital  hor 
ror,  they  seemed  to  crawl  with  a  malignant  and  repulsive 
life.  The  entire  room  was  charged  with  this  palpable, 
sentient  evil.  John  Woolfolk  defiantly  faced  the  still, 
cold  inclosure;  he  was  conscious  of  an  unseen  scrutiny,  of 
a  menace  that  lived  in  pictures,  moved  the  fingers  of  the 
dead,  and  that  could  take  actual  bulk  and  pound  his  heart 
sore. 

He  was  not  afraid  of  the  wrongness  that  inhabited  this 
muck  of  house  and  grove  and  matted  bush.  He  said  this 
loudly  to  the  prostrate  form;  then,  waiting  a  little,  repeated 
it.  He  would  smash  the  print  with  its  fallacious  expanse 
of  peace.  The  broken  glass  of  the  smitten  picture  jingled 
thinly  on  the  floor.  Woolfolk  turned  suddenly  and  de 
feated  the  purpose  of  whatever  had  been  stealthily  behind 
him;  anyway  it  had  disappeared.  He  stood  in  a  strained 
attitude,  listening  to  the  aberrations  of  the  wind  without, 
when  an  actual  presence  slipped  by  him,  stopping  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor. 

It  was  Millie  Stope.  Her  eyes  were  opened  to  their 
widest  extent,  but  they  had  the  peculiar  blank  fixity  of 
the  eyes  of  the  blind.  Above  them  her  hair  slipped  and 
slid  in  a  loosened  knot. 

"  I  had  to  walk  round  him,'7  she  protested  in  a  low, 
fluctuating  voice,  "  there  was  no  other  way  .  .  .  Right 

[89] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

by  his  head.  My  skirt "  She  broke  off  and,  shud 
dering,  came  close  to  John  Woolfolk.  "  I  think  we'd 
better  go  away,"  she  told  him,  nodding.  "  It's  quite 
impossible  here,  with  him  in  the  hall,  where  you  have  to 
pass  so  close." 

Woolfolk  drew  back  from  her.  She  too  was  a  part  of 
the  house;  she  had  led  him  there  —  a  white  flame  that 
he  had  followed  into  the  swamp.  And  this  was  no  ordi 
nary  marsh.  It  was,  he  added  aloud,  "  A  swamp  of 
souls." 

"  Then,"  she  replied,  "  we  must  leave  at  once." 

A  dragging  sound  rose  from  the  hall.  Millie  Stope 
cowered  in  a  voiceless  access  of  terror;  but  John  Woolfolk, 
lamp  in  hand,  moved  to  the  door.  He  was  curious  to 
see  exactly  what  was  happening.  The  bulk  had  risen,  a 
broad  back  swayed  like  a  pendulum  and  a  swollen  hand 
gripped  the  stair  rail.  The  form  heaved  itself  up  a 
step,  paused,  tottering,  and  then  mounted  again.  Wool- 
folk  saw  at  once  that  the  other  was  going  for  the  knife 
buried  in  the  wall  above.  He  watched  with  an  impersonal 
interest  the  dragging  ascent.  At  the  seventh  step  it  ceased, 
the  figure  crumpled,  slid  halfway  back  to  the  floor. 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  Woolfolk  observed  critically. 

The  other  sat  bowed,  with  one  leg  extended  stiffly  down 
ward,  on  the  stair  that  mounted  from  the  pale  radiance  of 
the  lamp  into  impenetrable  darkness.  Woolfolk  moved 
back  into  the  room  and  replaced  the  lamp  on  its  table. 
Millie  Stope  still  stood  with  open,  hanging  hands,  a 
countenance  of  expectant  dread.  Her  eyes  did  not  shift 
from  the  door  as  he  entered  and  passed  her;  her  gaze 
hung  starkly  on  what  might  emerge  from  the  hall. 

[90] 


WILD     ORANGES 

A  deep  loathing  of  his  surroundings  swept  over  John 
Woolfolk,  a  sudden  revulsion  from  the  dead  man  on  the 
floor,  from  the  ponderous  menace  on  the  stair,  the  white 
figure  that  had  brought  it  all  upon  him.  A  mounting 
horror  of  the  place  possessed  him,  and  he  turned  and  in 
continently  fled.  A  complete  panic  enveloped  him  at  his 
flight,  a  blind  necessity  to  get  away,  and  he  ran  heed 
lessly  through  the  night,  with  head  up  and  arms  ex 
tended.  His  feet  struck  upon  a  rotten  fragment  of  board 
that  broke  beneath  him,  he  pushed  through  a  tangle  of 
grass,  and  then  his  progress  was  held  by  soft  and  drag 
ging  sand.  A  moment  later  he  was  halted  by  a  chill 
flood  rising  abruptly  to  his  knees.  He  drew  back  sharply 
and  fell  on  the  beach,  with  his  heels  in  the  water  of  the 
bay. 

An  insuperable  weariness  pinned  him  down,  a  com 
plete  exhaustion  of  brain  and  body.  A  heavy  wind  struck 
like  a  wet  cloth  on  his  face.  The  sky  had  been  swept 
clear  of  clouds  and  stars  sparkled  in  the  pure  depths  of 
the  night.  The  latter  were  white,  with  the  exception  of 
one  that  burned  with  an  unsteady,  yellow  ray  and  seemed 
close  by.  This,  John  Woolfolk  thought,  was  strange.  He 
concentrated  a  frowning  gaze  upon  it  —  perhaps  in  fall 
ing  into  the  soiled  atmosphere  of  the  earth  it  had  lost  its 
crystal  gleam  and  burned  with  a  turgid  light.  It  was 
very,  very  probable. 

He  continued  to  watch  it,  facing  the  tonic  wind,  until 
with  a  clearing  of  his  mind,  a  gasp  of  joyful  recognition, 
he  knew  that  it  was  the  riding  light  of  the  Gar. 

Woolfolk  sat  very  still  under  the  pressure  of  his  re 
newed  sanity.  Fact  upon  fact,  memory  on  memory, 

[91] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

returned,  and  in  proper  perspective  built  up  again  his 
mentality,  his  logic,  his  scattered  powers  of  being.  The 
Gar  rode  uneasily  on  her  anchor  chains;  the  wind  was 
shifting.  They  must  get  away !  —  Halvard,  waiting  at  the 
wharf  —  Millie 

He  rose  hurriedly  to  his  feet  —  he  had  cravenly  de 
serted  Millie;  left  her,  in  all  her  anguish,  with  her  dead 
parent  and  Iscah  Nicholas.  His  love  for  her  swept  back, 
infinitely  heightened  by  the  knowledge  of  her  suffering. 
At  the  same  time  there  returned  the  familiar  fear  of  a 
permanent  disarrangement  in  her  of  chords  that  were  un 
responsive  to  the  clumsy  expedients  of  affection  and  sci 
ence.  She  had  been  subjected  to  a  strain  that  might  well 
unsettle  a  relatively  strong  will;  and  she  had  been  fragile 
in  the  beginning. 

She  must  be  a  part  of  no  more  scenes  of  violence,  he 
told  himself,  moving  hurriedly  through  the  orange  grove; 
she  must  be  led  quietly  to  the  tender  —  that  is,  if  it  were 
not  already  too  late.  His  entire  effort  to  preserve  her 
had  been  a  series  of  blunders,  each  one  of  which  might 
well  have  proved  fatal,  and  now,  in  their  entirety,  perhaps 
had. 

He  mounted  to  the  porch  and  entered  the  hall.  The 
light  flowed  undisturbed  from  the  room  on  the  left;  and, 
in  its  thin  wash,  he  saw  that  Iscah  Nicholas  had  disap 
peared  from  the  lower  steps.  Immediately,  however,  and 
from  higher  up,  he  heard  a  shuffling,  and  could  just  make 
out  a  form  heaving  obscurely  in  the  gloom.  Nicholas 
patently  was  making  progress  toward  the  consummation 
of  his  one,  fixed  idea;  but  Wool  folk  decided  that  at  pres 
ent  he  could  best  afford  to  ignore  him. 

[92] 


WILD    ORANGES 

He  entered  the  lighted  room,  and  found  Millie  seated 
and  gazing  in  dull  wonderment  at  the  figure  on  the  floor. 

"  I  must  tell  you  about  my  father,"  she  said  conversa 
tionally.  "  You  know,  in  Virginia,  the  women  tied  an 
apron  to  his  door  because  he  would  not  go  to  war,  and  for 
years  that  preyed  on  his  mind,  until  he  was  afraid  of  the 
slightest  thing.  He  was  without  a  particle  of  strength 

—  just  to  watch  the  sun  cross  the  sky  wearied  him,  and 
the  smallest  disagreement  upset  him  for  a  week." 

She  stopped,  lost  in  amazement  at  what  she  con 
templated,  what  was  to  follow. 

"Then  Nicholas But  that  isn't  important.  I 

was  to  meet  a  man  —  we  were  going  away  together,  to 
some  place  where  it  would  be  peaceful.  We  were  to 
sail  there.  He  said  at  eight  o'clock.  Well,  at  seven 
Nicholas  was  in  the  kitchen.  I  got  father  into  his  very 
heaviest  coat,  and  laid  out  a  muffler  and  his  gloves,  then 
sat  and  waited.  I  didn't  need  anything  extra,  my  heart 
was  quite  warm.  Then  father  asked  why  I  had  changed 
his  coat  —  if  I'd  told  him,  he  would  have  died  of  fright 

—  he  said  he  was  too  hot,  and  he  fretted  and  worried. 
Nicholas  heard  him,  and  he  wanted  to  know  why  I  had 
put  on  father's  winter  coat.     He  found  the  muffler  and 
gloves  ready  and  got  suspicious. 

"  He  stayed  in  the  hall,  crying  a  little  —  Nicholas  cried 
right  often  —  while  I  sat  with  father  and  tried  to  think  of 
some  excuse  to  get  away.  At  last  I  had  to  go  —  for  an 
orange,  I  said  —  but  Nicholas  wouldn't  believe  it.  He 
pushed  me  back  and  told  me  I  was  going  out  to  the  other. 

"  '  Nicholas,'  I  said,  '  don't  be  silly;  nobody  would  come 
away  from  a  boat  on  a  night  like  this.  Besides,  he's 

[93] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

gone  away.'  We  had  that  last  made  up.  But  he  pushed 
me  back  again.  Then  I  heard  father  move  behind  us, 
and  I  thought  —  he's  going  to  die  of  fright  right  now. 
But  father's  footsteps  came  on  across  the  floor  and  up  to 
my  side. 

"'  Don't  do  that,  Nicholas/  he  told  him;  'take  your 
hand  from  my  daughter.'  He  swayed  a  little,  his  lips 
shook,  but  he  stood  facing  him.  It  was  father!  "  Her 
voice  died  away,  and  she  was  silent  for  a  moment,  gazing 
at  the  vision  of  that  unsuspected  and  surprising  courage. 
"Of  course  Nicholas  killed  him,"  she  added.  "He 
twisted  him  away  and  father  died.  That  didn't  matter," 
she  told  Woolfolk;  "  but  the  other  was  terribly  important, 
anyone  can  see  that." 

John  Woolfolk  listened  intently,  but  there  was  no  sound 
from  without.  Then,  with  every  appearance  of  leisure, 
he  rolled  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Splendid!"  he  said  of  her  recital;  "and  I  don't 
doubt  you're  right  about  the  important  thing."  He  moved 
toward  her,  holding  out  his  hand.  "Splendid!  But 
we  must  go  on  —  the  man  is  waiting  for  you." 

"  It's  too  late,"  she  responded  indifferently.  She  redi 
rected  her  thoughts  to  her  parent's  enthralling  end.  "  Do 
you  think  a  man  as  brave  as  that  should  lie  on  the  floor?  " 
she  demanded.  "  A  flag,"  she  added  obscurely,  consider 
ing  an  appropriate  covering  for  the  still  form. 

"  No,  not  on  the  floor,"  Woolfolk  instantly  responded. 
He  bent  and,  lifting  the  body  of  Lichfield  Stope,  carried 
it  into  the  hall,  where,  relieved  at  the  opportunity  to  dis 
pose  of  his  burden,  he  left  it  in  an  obscure  corner. 

Iscah  Nicholas  was  stirring  again.  John  Woolfolk 
[94] 


WILD    ORANGES 

waited,  gazing  up  the  stair,  but  the  other  progressed  no 
more  than  a  step.  Then  he  returned  to  Millie. 

"  Gome,"  he  said.  "  No  time  to  lose."  He  took  her 
arm  and  exerted  a  gentle  pressure  toward  the  door. 

"  I  explained  that  it  was  too  late,"  she  reiterated,  evad 
ing  him.  "  Father  really  lived,  but  I  died.  '  Swamp  of 
souls,' "  she  added  in  a  lower  voice.  "  Someone  said 
that,  and  it's  true;  it  happened  to  me." 

"  The  man  waiting  for  you  will  be  worried,"  he  sug 
gested.  "  He  depends  absolutely  on  your  coming." 

"  Nice  man.  Something  had  happened  to  him  too.  He 
caught  a  rockfish  and  Nicholas  boiled  it  in  milk  for 
our  breakfast."  At  the  mention  of  Iscah  Nicholas  a 
slight  shiver  passed  over  her.  This  was  what  Woolfolk 
hoped  for  —  a  return  of  her  normal  revulsion  from  her 
surroundings,  from  the  past. 

"Nicholas,"  he  said  sharply,  contradicted  by  a  faint 
dragging  from  the  stair,  "  is  dead." 

"  If  you  could  only  assure  me  of  that,"  she  replied 
wistfully.  "  If  I  could  be  certain  that  he  wasn't  in  the 
next  shadow  I'd  go  gladly.  Any  other  way  it  would 
be  useless."  She  laid  her  hand  over  her  heart.  "  I 

must  get  him  out  of  here My  father  did.  His  lips 

trembled  a  little,  but  he  said  quite  clearly:  '  Don't  do 
that.  Don't  touch  my  daughter.'  " 

"  Your  father  was  a  singularly  brave  man,"  he  as 
sured  her,  rebelling  against  the  leaden  monotony  of 
speech  that  had  fallen  upon  them.  "  Your  mother  too 
was  brave,"  he  temporized.  He  could,  he  decided,  wait 
no  longer.  She  must,  if  necessary,  be  carried  away 
forcibly.  It  was  a  desperate  chance  —  the  least  pressure 

[95] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

might  result  in  a  permanent,  jangling  discord.  Her 
waist,  torn,  he  saw,  upon  her  pallid  shoulder,  was  in 
sufficient  covering  against  the  wind  and  night.  Looking 
about  he  discovered  the  muffler,  laid  out  for  her  father, 
crumpled  on  the  floor;  and,  with  an  arm  about  her,  folded 
it  over  her  throat  and  breast. 

"  Now  we're  away,"  he  declared  in  a  forced  lightness. 

She  resisted  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  collapsed  into 
his  support. 

John  Woolfolk  half  led,  half  carried  her  into  the  hall. 
His  gaze  searched  the  obscurity  of  the  stair;  it  was 
empty;  but  from  above  came  the  sound  of  a  heavy,  drag 
ging  step. 

XIV 

Outside  she  cowered  pitifully  from  the  violent  blast  of 
the  wind,  the  boundless,  stirred  space.  They  made  their 
way  about  the  corner  of  the  house,  leaving  behind  the 
pale,  glimmering  rectangle  of  the  lighted  window.  In  the 
thicket  Woolfolk  was  forced  to  proceed  more  slowly. 
Millie  stumbled  weakly  over  the  rough  way,  apparently  at 
the  point  of  slipping  to  the  ground.  He  felt  a  supreme 
relief  when  the  cool  sweep  of  the  sea  opened  before  him 
and  Halvard  emerged  from  the  gloom. 

He  halted  for  a  moment,  with  his  arm  about  Millie's 
shoulders,  facing  his  man.  Even  in  the  dark  he  was 
conscious  of  Poul  Halvard's  stalwart  being,  of  his  rock- 
like  integrity. 

"  I  was  delayed,"  he  said  finally,  amazed  at  the  in 
adequacy  of  his  words  to  express  the  pressure  of  the 
past  hours.  Had  they  been  two  or  four?  He  had  been 

[96] 


WILD    ORANGES 

totally  unconscious  of  the  passage  of  actual  time.  In 
the  dark  house  behind  the  orange  grove  he  had  lived 
through  tormented  ages,  descended  into  depths  be 
yond  the  measured  standard  of  Greenwich.  Halvard 
said: 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  sound  of  a  blundering  progress  rose  from  the 
path  behind  them,  the  breaking  of  branches  and  the  slip 
ping  of  a  heavy  tread  on  the  water-soaked  ground.  John 
Woolfolk,  with  an  oath,  realized  that  it  was  Nicholas, 
still  animated  by  his  fixed,  maniacal  idea.  Millie  Stope 
recognized  the  sound,  too,  for  she  trembled  abjectly  on  his 
arm.  He  knew  that  she  could  support  no  more  violence, 
and  he  turned  to  the  dim,  square-set  figure  before  him. 

"  Halvard,  it's  that  fellow  Nicholas.  He's  insane  — 
has  a  knife.  Will  you  stop  him  while  I  get  Miss  Stope 
into  the  tender?  She's  pretty  well  done."  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  other's  shoulder  as  he  started  immediately 
forward.  "  I  shall  have  to  go  on,  Halvard,  if  anything 
unfortunate  occurs,"  he  said  in  a  different  voice. 

The  sailor  made  no  reply;  but  as  Woolfolk  urged 
Millie  out  over  the  wharf  he  saw  Halvard  throw  himself 
upon  a  dark  bulk  that  broke  from  the  wood. 

The  tender  was  made  fast  fore  and  aft;  and,  getting 
down  into  the  uneasy  boat,  Woolfolk  reached  up  and 
lifted  Millie  bodily  to  his  side.  She  dropped  in  a  still, 
white  heap  on  the  bottom,  He  unfastened  the  painter  and 
stood  holding  the  tender  close  to  the  wharf,  with  his  head 
above  its  platform,  straining  his  gaze  in  the  direction  of 
the  obscure  struggle  on  land. 

He  could  see  nothing,  and  heard  only  an  occasional 
[97] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

trampling  of  the  underbrush.  It  was  difficult  to  remain 
detached,  give  no  assistance,  while  Halvard  encountered 
Iscah  Nicholas.  Yet  with  Millie  in  a  semi-collapse,  and 
the  bare  possibility  of  Nicholas'  knifing  them  both,  he 
felt  that  this  was  his  only  course.  Halvard  was  an  un 
usually  powerful,  active  man,  and  the  other  must  have 
suffered  from  the  stress  of  his  long  conflict  in  the  hall. 

The  thing  terminated  speedily.  There  was  the  sound 
of  a  heavy  fall,  a  diminishing  thrashing  in  the  saw  grass, 
and  silence.  An  indistinguishable  form  advanced  over 
the  wharf,  and  Woolfolk  prepared  to  shove  the  tender 
free.  But  it  was  Poul  Halvard.  He  got  down,  Woolfolk 
thought,  clumsily,  and  mechanically  assumed  his  place 
at  the  oars.  Woolfolk  sat  aft,  with  an  arm  about  Millie 
Stope.  The  sailor  said  fretfully: 

"  I  stopped  him.  He  was  all  pumped  out.  Missed  his 
hand  at  first  —  the  dark  —  a  scratch." 

He  rested  on  the  oars,  fingering  his  shoulder.  The 
tender  swung  dangerously  near  the  corrugated  rock  of  the 
shore,  and  Woolfolk  sharply  directed:  "  Keep  way  on 
her." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Halvard  replied,  once  more  swinging  into 
his  short,  efficient  stroke.  It  was,  however,  less  sure 
than  usual;  an  oar  missed  its  hold  and  skittered  impo- 
tently  over  the  water,  drenching  Woolfolk  with  a  brief, 
cold  spray.  Again  the  bow  of  the  tender  dipped  into 
the  point  of  land  they  were  rounding,  and  John  Woolfolk 
spoke  more  abruptly  than  before. 

He  was  seriously  alarmed  about  Millie.  Her  face  was 
apathetic,  almost  blank,  and  her  arms  hung  across  his 

[98] 


WILD    ORANGES 

knees  with  no  more  response  than  a  doll's.  He  wondered 
desperately  if,  as  she  had  said,  her  spirit  had  perished; 
if  the  Millie  Stope  that  had  moved  him  so  swiftly  and 
tragically  from  his  long  indifference,  his  aversion  to  life, 
had  gone,  leaving  him  more  hopelessly  bereaved  than  be 
fore.  The  sudden  extinction  of  Ellen's  life  had  been 
more  supportable  than  Millie's  crouching  dumbly  at  his 
feet.  His  arm  unconsciously  tightened  about  her,  and  she 
gazed  up  with  a  momentary,  questioning  flicker  of  her 
wide-opened  eyes.  He  repeated  her  name  in  a  deep 
whisper,  but  her  head  fell  forward  loosely,  and  left  him 
in  racking  doubt. 

Now  he  could  see  the  shortly  swaying  riding  light  of  the 
Gar.  Halvard  was  propelling  them  vigorously  but  er 
ratically  forward.  At  times  he  remuttered  his  declarations 
about  the  encounter  with  Nicholas.  The  stray  words 
reached  Woolfolk: 

"  Stopped  him  —  the  cursed  dark  —  a  scratch." 

He  brought  the  tender  awkwardly  alongside  the  ketch, 
with  a  grinding  shock,  and  held  the  boats  together  while 
John  Woolfolk  shifted  Millie  to  the  deck.  Woolfolk 
took  her  immediately  into  the  cabin;  where,  lighting  a 
swinging  lamp,  he  placed  her  on  one  of  the  prepared 
berths  and  endeavored  to  wrap  her  in  a  blanket.  But, 
in  a  shuddering  access  of  fear,  she  rose  with  outheld 
palms. 

"Nicholas!"  she  cried  shrilly.  "There  — at  the 
door!" 

He  sat  beside  her,  restraining  her  convulsive  effort  to 
cower  in  a  far,  dark  angle  of  the  cabin. 

[99] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  told  her  brusquely.  "  You  are  on 
the  Gar.  You  are  safe.  In  an  hour  you  will  be  in  a 
new  world." 

"With  John  Woolfolk?" 

"  I  am  John  Woolfolk." 

"  But  he  —  you  —  left  me." 

"  I  am  here,"  he  insisted  with  a  tightening  of  the 
heart.  He  rose,  animated  by  an  overwhelming  necessity 
to  get  the  ketch  under  way,  to  leave  at  once,  forever,  the 
invisible  shore  of  the  bay.  He  gently  folded  her  again 
in  the  blanket,  but  she  resisted  him.  "  I'd  rather  stay 
up,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  lucidity.  "  It's  nice  here; 
I  wanted  to  come  before,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me." 

A  glimmer  of  hope  swept  over  him  as  he  mounted 
swiftly  to  the  deck.  "  Get  up  the  anchors,"  he  called; 
"  reef  down  the  jigger  and  put  on  a  handful  of  jib." 

There  was  no  immediate  response,  and  he  peered  over 
the  obscured  deck  in  search  of  Halvard.  The  man  rose 
slowly  from  a  sitting  posture  by  the  main  boom.  "  Very 
good,  sir,"  he  replied  in  a  forced  tone. 

He  disappeared  forward,  while  Woolfolk,  shutting  the 
cabin  door  on  the  confusing  illumination  within,  lighted 
the  binnacle  lamp,  bent  over  the  engine,  swiftly  making 
connections  and  adjustments,  and  cranked  the  wheel  with 
a  sharp,  expert  turn.  The  explosions  settled  into  a  dull, 
regular  succession,  and  he  coupled  the  propeller  and  slowly 
maneuvered  the  ketch  up  over  the  anchors,  reducing  the 
strain  on  the  hawsers  and  allowing  Halvard  to  get  in  the 
slack.  He  waited  impatiently  for  the  sailor's  cry  of  all 
clear,  and  demanded  the  cause  of  the  delay. 

"The  bight  slipped,"  the  other  called  in  a  muffled, 
[100] 


WILD    ORANGES 

angry  voice.  "  One's  clear  now,"  he  added.  "  Bring 
her  up  again."  The  ketch  forged  ahead,  but  the  wait 
was  longer  than  before.  "  Caught,"  Halyard's  voice 
drifted  thinly  aft;  "coral  ledge."  Woolfolk  held  the 
Gar  stationary  until  the  sailor  cried  weakly:  "  Anchor's 
apeak." 

They  moved  imperceptibly  through  the  dark,  into  the 
greater  force  of  the  wind  beyond  the  point.  The  dull 
roar  of  the  breaking  surf  ahead  grew  louder.  Halvard 
should  have  had  the  jib  up  and  been  aft  at  the  jigger,  but 
he  failed  to  appear.  John  Woolfolk  wondered,  in  a 
mounting  impatience,  what  was  the  matter  with  the  man. 
Finally  an  obscure  form  passed  him  and  hung  over  the 
housed  sail,  stripping  its  cover  and  removing  the  stops. 
The  sudden  thought  of  a  disconcerting  possibility  ban 
ished  Woolfolk's  annoyance.  "  Halvard,"  he  demanded, 
"did  Nicholas  knife  you?" 

"A  scratch,"  the  other  stubbornly  reiterated.  "I'll 
tie  it  up  later.  No  time  now  —  I  stopped  him  perma 
nent." 

The  jigger,  reefed  to  a  mere  irregular  patch,  rose 
with  a  jerk,  and  the  ketch  rapidly  left  the  protection  of  the 
shore.  She  dipped  sharply  and,  flattened  over  by  a  violent 
ball  of  wind,  buried  her  rail  in  the  black,  swinging  water, 
and  there  was  a  small  crash  of  breaking  china  from  within. 
The  wind  appeared  to  sweep  high  up  in  empty  space  and 
occasionally  descend  to  deal  the  yacht  a  staggering  blow. 
The  bar,  directly  ahead  —  as  Halvard  had  earlier  pointed 
out  —  was  now  covered  with  the  smother  of  a  lowering 
tide.  The  pass,  the  other  had  discovered,  too,  had  filled. 
It  was  charted  at  four  feet,  the  Gar  drew  a  full  three,  and 
[101] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

Woolfolk  knew  that  there  must  be  no  error,  no  uncer 
tainty,  in  running  out. 

Halvard  was  so  long  in  stowing  away  the  jigger  shears 
that  Woolfolk  turned  to  make  sure  that  the  sailor  had 
not  been  swept  from  the  deck.  The  "  scratch,"  he  was 
certain,  was  deeper  than  the  other  admitted.  When  they 
were  safely  at  sea  he  would  insist  upon  an  examination. 

The  subject  of  this  consideration  fell  rather  than  stepped 
into  the  cockpit,  and  stood  rocked  by  the  motion  of  the 
swells,  clinging  to  the  cabin's  edge.  Woolfolk  shifted  the 
engine  to  its  highest  speed,  and  they  were  driving  through 
the  tempestuous  dark  onto  the  bar.  He  was  now  con 
fronted  by  the  necessity  for  an  immediate  decision.  Hal 
vard  or  himself  would  have  to  stand  forward,  clinging  pre 
cariously  to  a  stay,  and  repeatedly  sound  the  depth  of  the 
shallowing  water  as  they  felt  their  way  out  to  sea.  He 
gazed  anxiously  at  the  dark  bulk  before  him,  and  saw 
that  the  sailor  had  lost  his  staunchness  of  outline,  his 
aspect  of  invincible  determination. 

"  Halvard,"  he  demanded  again  sharply,  "  this  is  no 
time  for  pretense.  How  are  you  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  the  other  repeated  desperately,  through 
clenched  teeth.  "  I've  —  I've  taken  knives  from  men  be 
fore  —  on  the  docks  at  Stockholm.  I  missed  his  hand  at 
first  —  it  was  the  night." 

The  cabin  door  swung  open,  and  a  sudden  lurch  flung 
Millie  Stope  against  the  wheel.  Woolfolk  caught  and 
held  her  until  the  wave  rolled  by.  She  was  ridden  by 
terror,  and  held  abjectly  to  the  rail  while  the  next  swell 
lifted  them  upward.  He  attempted  to  urge  her  back  to 
the  protection  of  the  cabin,  but  she  resisted  with  such  a  con- 

[102] 


WILD    ORANGES 

vulsive  determination  that  he  relinquished  the  effort  and 
enveloped  her  in  his  glistening  oilskin. 

This  had  consumed  a  perilous  amount  of  time;  and, 
swiftly  decisive,  he  commanded  Halvard  to  take  the 
wheel.  He  swung  himself  to  the  deck  and  secured  the 
long  sounding  pole.  He  could  see  ahead  on  either  side 
the  dim  white  bars  forming  and  dissolving,  and  called  to 
the  man  at  the  wheel : 

"  Mark  the  breakers  I     Fetch  her  between." 

On  the  bow,  leaning  out  over  the  surging  tide,  he  drove 
the  sounding  pole  forward  and  down,  but  it  floated  back 
free.  They  were  not  yet  on  the  bar.  The  ketch  heeled 
until  the  black  plain  of  water  rose  above  his  knees,  driv 
ing  at  him  with  a  deceitful  force,  sinking  back  slowly  as 
the  yacht  straightened  buoyantly.  He  again  sounded,  the 
pole  struck  bottom,  and  he  cried: 

"  Five." 

The  infuriated  beating  of  the  waves  on  the  obstruc 
tion  drawn  across  their  path  drowned  his  voice,  and  he 
shouted  the  mark  once  more.  Then  after  another  sound 
ing: 

"  Four  and  three." 

The  yacht  fell  away  dangerously  before  a  heavy,  diag 
onal  blow;  she  hung  for  a  moment,  rolling  like  a  log,  and 
then  slowly  regained  her  way.  Woolfolk's  apprehension 
increased.  It  would,  perhaps,  have  been  better  if  they  had 
delayed,  to  examine  Halvard's  injury.  The  man  had  in 
sisted  that  it  was  of  no  moment,  and  John  Woolfolk  had 
been  driven  by  a  consuming  desire  to  leave  the  miasmatic 
shore.  He  swung  the  pole  forward  and  cried: 

"  Four  and  a  half." 

[103] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

The  water  was  shoaling  rapidly.  The  breaking  waves 
on  the  port  and  starboard  hissed  by  with  lightning  rapid 
ity.  The  ketch  veered  again,  shipped  a  crushing  weight 
of  water,  and  responded  more  slowly  than  before  to  a  tardy 
pressure  of  the  rudder.  The  greatest  peril,  John  Wool- 
folk  knew,  lay  directly  before  them.  He  realized  from 
the  action  of  the  ketch  that  Halvard  was  steering  uncer 
tainly,  and  that  at  any  moment  the  Gar  might  strike  and 
fall  off  too  far  for  recovery,  when  she  could  not  live  in 
the  pounding  surf. 

"  Four  and  one,"  he  cried  hoarsely.  And  then  imme 
diately  after:  "Four." 

Chance  had  been  against  him  from  the  first,  he  thought, 
and  there  flashed  through  his  mind  the  dark  panorama, 
the  accumulating  disasters  of  the  night.  A  negation  lay 
upon  his  existence  that  would  not  be  lifted.  It  had  fol 
lowed  him  like  a  sinister  shadow  for  years  to  this  obscure, 
black  smother  of  water,  to  the  Gar  reeling  crazily  forward 
under  an  impotent  hand.  The  yacht  was  behaving 
heroically;  no  other  ketch  could  have  lived  so  long,  re 
sponded  so  gallantly  to  a  wavering  wheel. 

"  Three  and  three,"  he  shouted  above  the  combined 
stridor  of  wind  and  sea. 

The  next  minute  would  witness  their  safe  passage  or  a 
helpless  hulk  beating  to  pieces  on  the  bar,  with  three 
human  fragments  whirling  under  the  crushing  masses  of 
water,  floating,  perhaps,  with  the  dawn  into  the  tran- 
quillity  of  the  bay. 

"  Three  and  a  half,"  he  cried  monotonously. 

The  Gar  trembled  like  a  wounded  and  dull  animal. 
The  solid  seas  were  reaching  hungrily  over  Woolfolk's 

[104] 


WILD    ORANGES 

legs.  A  sudden  stolidity  possessed  him.  He  thrust  the 
pole  out  deliberately,  skillfully: 

"  Three  and  a  quarter." 

A  lower  sounding  would  mean  the  end.  He  paused 
for  a  moment,  his  dripping  face  turned  to  the  far  stars, 
his  lips  moved  in  silent,  unformulated  aspirations  — 
Halvard  and  himself,  in  the  sea  that  had  been  their  home; 
but  Millie  was  so  fragile!  He  made  the  sounding  pre 
cisely,  between  the  heaving  swells,  and  marked  the  pole 
instantly  driven  backward  by  their  swinging  flight. 

"  Three  and  a  half."  His  voice  held  a  new,  uncon 
trollable  quiver.  He  sounded  again  immediately: 
"  And  three-quarters." 

They  had  passed  the  bar. 

XV 

A  gladness  like  the  white  flare  of  burning  powder 
swept  over  him,  and  then  he  became  conscious  of  other, 
minor  sensations  —  his  head  ached  intolerably  from  the 
fall  down  the  stair,  and  a  grinding  pain  shot  through  his 
shoulder,  lodging  in  his  torn  lower  arm  at  the  slightest 
movement.  He  slipped  the  sounding  pole  into  its  loops 
on  the  cabin  and  hastily  made  his  way  aft  to  the  relief  of 
Poul  Halvard. 

The  sailor  was  nowhere  visible;  but,  in  an  intermittent, 
reddish  light  that  faded  and  swelled  as  the  cabin  door 
swung  open  and  shut,  Woolfolk  saw  a  white  figure  cling 
ing  to  the  wheel  —  Millie. 

Instantly  his  hands  replaced  hers  on  the  spokes  and, 
as  if  with  a  palpable  sigh  of  relief,  the  Gar  steadied  to 
[105] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

her  course.     Millie  Stope  clung  to  the  deck  rail,  sobbing 
with  exhaustion. 

"  He's  —  he's  dead !  "  she  exclaimed,  between  her  rack 
ing  inspirations.  She  pointed  to  the  floor  of  the  cockpit, 
and  there,  sliding  grotesquely  with  the  motion  of  the  sea 
way,  was  Poul  Halvard.  An  arm  was  flung  out,  as  if  in 
ward  against  the  ketch's  side,  but  it  crumpled,  the  body 
hit  heavily,  a  hand  seemed  to  clutch  at  the  boards  it  had 
so  often  and  thoroughly  swabbed,  but  without  avail. 
The  face  momentarily  turned  upward;  it  was  haggard 
beyond  expression,  and  bore  stamped  upon  it,  in  lines 
that  resembled  those  of  old  age,  the  agonized  struggle 
against  the  inevitable  last  treachery  of  life. 

"  When "  John  Woolfolk  stopped  in  sheer,  leaden 

amazement. 

"Just  when  you  called  *  Three  and  a  quarter.'  Be 
fore  that  he  had  fallen  on  his  knees.  He  begged  me  to 
help  him  hold  the  wheel. "  He  said  you'd  be  lost  if  I  didn't. 
He  talked  all  the  time  about  keeping  her  head  up  and 
up.  I  helped  him.  Your  voice  came  back  years  apart. 
At  the  last  he  was  on  the  floor,  holding  the  bottom  of  the 
wheel.  He  told  me  to  keep  it  steady,  dead  ahead.  His 
voice  grew  so  weak  that  I  couldn't  hear;  and  then  all  at 
once  he  slipped  away.  I  —  I  held  on  —  called  to  you. 
But  against  the  wind " 

He  braced  his  knee  against  the  wheel  and,  leaning 
out,  found  the  jigger  sheet  and  flattened  the  reefed  sail; 
he  turned  to  where  the  jib  sheet  led  after,  and  then  swung 
the  ketch  about.  The  yacht  rode  smoothly,  slipping  for 
ward  over  the  long,  even  ground  swell,  and  he  turned 
with  immeasurable  emotion  to  the  woman  beside  him. 

[106] 


WILD     ORANGES 

The  light  from  the  cabin  flooded  out  over  her  face, 
and  he  saw  that,  miraculously,  the  fear  had  gone.  Her 
countenance  was  drawn  with  weariness  and  the  hideous 
strain  of  the  past  minutes,  but  her  gaze  squarely  met  the 
night  and  sea.  Her  chin  was  lifted,  its  graceful  line 
firm,  and  her  mouth  was  in  repose.  She  had,  as  he  had 
recognized  she  alone  must,  conquered  the  legacy  of  Lich- 
field  Stope;  while  he,  John  Woolfolk,  and  Halvard,  had 
put  Nicholas  out  of  her  life.  She  was  free. 

"  If  you  could  go  below "  he  suggested.  "  In  the 

morning,  with  this  wind,  we'll  be  at  anchor  under  a 
fringe  of  palms,  in  water  like  a  blue-silk  counterpane." 

"  I  think  I  could  now,  with  you,"  she  replied.  She 
pressed  her  lips,  salt  and  enthralling,  against  his  face,  and 
made  her  way  into  the  cabin.  He  locked  the  wheel  mo 
mentarily  and,  following,  wrapped  her  in  the  blankets, 
on  the  new  sheets  prepared  for  her  coming.  Then,  put 
ting  out  the  light,  he  shut  the  cabin  door  and  returned 
to  the  wheel. 

The  body  of  Poul  Halvard  struck  his  feet  and  rested 
there.  A  good  man,  born  by  the  sea,  who  had  known  its 
every  expression;  with  a  faithful  and  simple  heart,  as  such 
men  occasionally  had. 

The  diminished  wind  swept  in  a  clear  diapason  through 
the  pellucid  sky;  the  resplendent  sea  reached  vast  and 
magnetic  to  its  invisible  horizon.  A  sudden  distaste 
seized  John  Woolfolk  for  the  dragging  death  ceremonials 
of  land.  Halvard  had  known  the  shore  mostly  as  a 
turbulent  and  unclean  strip  that  had  finally  brought 
about  his  end. 

He  leaned  forward  and  found  beyond  any  last  doubt 
[107] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

that  the  other  was  dead;  a  black,  clotted  surface  adhered 
to  the  wound  which  his  pride,  his  invincible  determination, 
had  driven  him  to  deny. 

In  the  space  beneath  the  afterdeck  Woolfolk  found  a 
spare  folded  anchor  for  the  tender,  a  length  of  rope,  and 
he  slowly  completed  the  preparations  for  his  purpose. 
He  lifted  the  body  to  the  narrow  deck  outside  the  rail, 
and,  in  a  long  dip,  the  waves  carried  it  smoothly  and 
soundlessly  away.  John  Woolfolk  said: 

"  *  .  .  .  Commit  his  body  to  the  deep,  looking  for  the 
general  resurrection  .  .  .  through  .  .  .  Christ.' " 

Then,  upright  and  motionless  at  the  wheel,  with  the 
wan  radiance  of  the  binnacle  lamp  floating  up  over  his 
hollow  cheeks  and  set  gaze,  he  held  the  ketch  southward 
through  the  night. 


[108] 


TUBAL  CAIN 


ALEXANDER  HULINGS  sat  at  the  dingy, 
green-baize  covered  table,  with  one  slight  knee 
hung  loosely  over  the  other,  and  his  tenuous 
fingers  lightly  gripping  the  time-polished  wooden  arms 
of  a  hickory  chair.  He  was  staring  somberly,  with  an 
immobile,  thin,  dark  countenance,  at  the  white  plaster  wall 
before  him.  Close  by  his  right  shoulder  a  window  opened 
on  a  tranquil  street,  where  the  vermilion  maple  buds 
were  splitting;  and  beyond  the  window  a  door  was  ajar 
on  a  plank  sidewalk.  Some  shelves  held  crumbling  yel 
low  calf-bound  volumes,  a  few  new,  with  glazed  black 
labels;  at  the  back  was  a  small  cannon  stove,  with  an 
elbow  of  pipe  let  into  the  plaster;  a  large  steel  engrav 
ing  of  Chief  Justice  Marshall  hung  on  the  wall;  and  in  a 
farther  corner  a  careless  pile  of  paper,  folded  in  dockets 
or  tied  with  casual  string,  was  collecting  a  grey  film  of 
neglect.  A  small  banjo  clock,  with  a  brass-railed  pedi 
ment  and  an  elongated  picture  in  color  of  the  Exchange 
at  Manchester,  traced  the  regular,  monotonous  passage  of 
minutes  into  hour. 

The  hour  extended,  doubled;  but  Alexander  Hulings 
barely  shifted  a  knee,  a  hand.  At  times  a  slight  con 
vulsive  shudder  passed  through  his  shoulders,  but  without 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

affecting  his  position  or  the  concentrated  gloom.  Occa 
sionally  he  swallowed  dryly;  his  grip  momentarily  tight 
ened  on  the  chair,  but  his  gaze  was  level.  The  afternoon 
waned;  a  sweet  breath  of  flowering  magnolia  drifted  in 
at  the  door;  the  light  grew  tender;  and  footfalls  without 
sounded  far  away.  Suddenly  Hulings  moved;  his  chair 
scraped  harshly  over  the  bare  floor  and  he  strode  abruptly 
outside,  where  he  stood  facing  a  small  tin  sign  nailed  near 
the  door.  It  read: 

ALEXANDER  HULINGS 
COUNSELOR  AT  LAW 

With  a  violent  gesture,  unpremeditated  even  by  himself, 
he  forced  his  hand  under  an  edge  of  the  sign  and  ripped  it 
from  its  place.  Then  he  went  back  and  flung  it  bitterly, 
with  a  crumpling  impact,  away  from  him,  and  resumed  his 
place  at  the  table. 

It  was  the  end  of  that!  He  had  practiced  law  seven, 
nine,  years,  detesting  its  circuitous  trivialities,  uniformly 
failing  to  establish  a  professional  success,  without  real 
izing  his  utter  legal  unfitness.  Before  him  on  a  scrap 
of  paper  were  the  figures  of  his  past  year's  activities. 
He  had  made  something  over  nine  hundred  dollars.  And 
he  was  thirty- four  years  old!  Those  facts,  seen  together, 
dinned  failure  in  his  brain.  There  were  absolutely  no 
indications  of  a  brighter  future.  Two  other  actualities 
added  to  the  gloom  of  his  thoughts  —  one  was  Hallie 
Flower,  that  would  have  to  be  encountered  at  once,  this 
evening;  and  the  other  was  —  his  health. 

He  was  reluctant  to  admit  any  question  of  the  latter; 
[112] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

he  had  the  feeling,  almost  a  superstition,  that  such  an 
admission  increased  whatever,  if  anything,  was  the  mat 
ter  with  him.  It  was  vague,  but  increasingly  disturb 
ing;  he  had  described  it  with  difficulty  to  Doctor  Veneada, 
his  only  intimate  among  the  Eastlake  men,  as  a  sensation 
like  that  a  fiddlestring  might  experience  when  tightened 
remorselessly  by  a  blundering  hand. 

"At  any  minute,"  he  had  said,  "the  damned  thing 
must  go!  " 

Veneada  had  frowned  out  of  his  whiskers. 

"  What  you  need,"  the  doctor  had  decided,  "  is  a  com 
plete  change.  You  are  strung  up.  Go  away;  forget  the 
law  for  two  or  three  months.  The  Mineral  is  the  place 
for  you." 

Alexander  Hulings  couldn't  afford  a  month  or  more  at 
the  Mineral  Spring;  and  he  had  said  so  with  the  sharp 
ness  that  was  one  of  the  disturbing  symptoms  of  his  con 
dition.  He  had  had  several  letters,  though,  throughout 
a  number  of  years,  from  James  Claypole,  a  cousin  of  his 
mother,  asking  him  out  to  Tubal  Cain,  the  iron  forge 
which  barely  kept  Claypole  alive;  and  he  might  manage 
that  —  if  it  were  not  for  Hallie  Flower.  There  the  con 
versation  had  come  to  an  inevitable  conclusion. 

Now,  in  a  flurry  of  violence  that  was,  nevertheless,  the 
expression  of  complete  purpose,  he  had  ended  his  prac 
tice,  his  only  livelihood;  and  that  would  —  must  —  end 
Hallie. 

He  had  been  engaged  to  her  from  the  day  when,  together, 
they  had,  with  a  pretense  of  formality,  opened  his  office 
in  Eastlake.  He  had  determined  not  to  marry  until  he 
made  a  thousand  dollars  in  a  year;  and,  as  year  after 

[113] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

year  slipped  by  without  his  achieving  that  amount,  their 
engagement  had  come  to  resemble  the  unemotional  con 
tact  of  a  union  without  sex.  Lately  Hallie  had  seemed 
almost  content  with  duties  in  her  parental  home  and 
the  three  evenings  weekly  that  Alexander  spent  with  her 
in  the  formal  propriety  of  a  front  room. 

His  own  feelings  defied  analysis;  but  it  seemed  to  him 
that,  frankly  surveyed,  even  his  love  for  Hallie  Flower 
had  been  swallowed  up  in  the  tide  of  irritability  rising 
about  him.  He  felt  no  active  sorrow  at  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  about  to  relinquish  all  claim  upon  her;  his 
pride  stirred  resentfully;  the  evening  promised  to  be  un 
comfortable  —  but  that  was  all. 

The  room  swam  about  him  in  a  manner  that  had  grown 
hatefully  familiar;  he  swayed  in  his  chair;  and  his  hands 
were  first  numb  with  cold  and  then  wet  by  perspiration. 
A  sinking  fear  fastened  on  him,  an  inchoate  dread  that 
he  fought  bitterly.  It  wasn't  death  from  which  Alexander 
Hulings  shuddered,  but  a  crawling  sensation  that  turned 
his  knees  to  dust.  He  was  a  slight  man,  with  narrow 
shoulders  and  close-swinging  arms,  but  as  rigidly  erect 
as  an  iron  bar;  his  mentality  was  like  that  too,  and  he 
particularly  detested  the  variety  of  nerves  that  had  settled 
on  him. 

A  form  blocked  the  doorway,  accentuating  the  dusk  that 
had  swiftly  gathered  in  the  office,  and  Veneada  entered. 
His  neckcloth  was,  as  always,  carelessly  folded,  and  his 
collar  hid  in  rolls  of  fat;  a  cloak  was  thrown  back  from 
a  wide  girth  and  he  wore  an  incongruous  pair  of  buff 
linen  trousers. 

"What's  this  —  mooning  in  the  dark?  "  he  demanded. 
[114] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

"  Thought  you  hadn't  locked  the  office  door.  Come  out; 
fill  your  lungs  with  the  spring  and  your  stomach  with 
supper." 

Without  reply,  Alexander  Hulings  followed  the  other 
into  the  street. 

"  I  am  going  to  Hallie's,"  he  said  in  response  to  Vene- 
ada's  unspoken  query. 

Suddenly  he  felt  that  he  must  conclude  everything  at 
once  and  get  away;  where  and  from  what  he  didn't  know. 
It  was  not  his  evening  to  see  Hallie  and  she  would  be 
surprised  when  he  came  up  on  the  step.  The  Flowers  had 
supper  at  five;  it  would  be  over  now,  and  Hallie  finished 
with  the  dishes  and  free.  Alexander  briefly  told 
Veneada  his  double  decision. 

"  In  a  way,"  the  other  said,  "  I'm  glad.  You  must 
get  away  for  a  little  anyway;  and  you  are  accomplishing 
nothing  here  in  Eastlake.  You  are  a  rotten  lawyer, 
Alexander;  any  other  man  would  have  quit  long  ago; 
but  your  infernal  stubbornness  held  you  to  it.  You  are 
not  a  small-town  man.  You  see  life  in  a  different,  a 
wider  way.  And  if  you  could  only  come  on  something 
where  your  pig-headedness  counted  there's  no  saying  where 
you'd  reach.  I'm  sorry  for  Hallie;  she's  a  nice  woman, 
and  you  could  get  along  well  enough  on  nine  hun 
dred " 

"  I  said  I'd  never  marry  until  I  made  a  thousand  in 
a  year,"  Hulings  broke  in,  exasperated. 

"Good  heavens!  Don't  I  know  that?"  Veneada  re 
plied.  "And  you  won't,  you  —  you  mule!  I  guess  I've 
suffered  enough  from  your  confounded  character  to  know 
what  it  means  when  you  say  a  thing.  I  think  you're 

[us] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

right  about  this.  Go  up  to  that  fellow  Claypole  and  show 
him  what  brittle  stuff  iron  is  compared  to  yourself.  Seri 
ously,  Alex,  get  out  and  work  like  the  devil  at  a  heavy 
job;  go  to  bed  with  your  back  ruined  and  your  hands 
raw.  You  know  I'll  miss  you  —  means  a  lot  to  me,  best 
friend." 

A  deep  embarrassment  was  visible  on  Veneada;  it  was 
communicated  to  Alexander  Hulings,  and  he  was  relieved 
when  they  drew  opposite  the  Flowers'  dwelling. 

It  was  a  narrow,  high,  brick  structure,  with  a  portico 
cap,  supported  by  cast-iron  grilling,  and  shallow  iron- 
railed  balconies  on  the  second  story.  A  gravel  path 
divided  a  small  lawn  beyond  a  gate  guarded  by  two  stone 
greyhounds.  Hallie  emerged  from  the  house  with  an 
expression  of  mild  inquiry  at  his  unexpected  appearance. 
She  was  a  year  older  than  himself,  an  erect,  thin  woman, 
with  a  pale  coloring  and  unstirred  blue  eyes. 

"  Why,  Alex,"  she  remarked,  "  whatever  brought  you 
here  on  a  Saturday?  "  They  sat,  without  further  im 
mediate  speech,  from  long  habit,  in  familiar  chairs. 

He  wondered  how  he  was  going  to  tell  her?  And  the 
question,  the  difficulty,  roused  in  him  an  astonishing 
amount  of  exasperation.  He  regarded  her  almost  vin 
dictively,  with  covertly  shut  hands.  He  must  get  hold  of 
himself.  Hallie,  to  whom  he  was  about  to  do  irreparable 
harm,  the  kindest  woman  in  existence!  But  he  realized 
that  whatever  feeling  he  had  had  for  her  was  gone  for 
ever;  she  had  become  merged  indistinguishably  into  the 
thought  of  Eastlake;  and  every  nerve  in  him  demanded  a 
total  separation  from  the  slumberous  town  that  had  wit 
nessed  his  legal  failure. 

[116] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

He  wasn't,  he  knew,  normal;  his  intention  here  was 
reprehensible,  but  he  was  without  will  to  defeat  it.  Alex 
ander  Hulings  felt  the  clumsy  hand  drawing  tighter  the 
string  he  had  pictured  himself  as  being;  an  overwhelm 
ing  impulse  overtook  him  to  rush  away  —  anywhere,  im 
mediately.  He  said  in  a  rapid  blurred  voice : 

"  Hallie,  this  —  our  plans  are  a  failure  —  that  is,  I 
am.  The  law's  been  no  good;  I  mean,  I  havenit.  Can't 
get  the  hang  of  the  —  the  damned " 

"  Alex!  "  she  interrupted,  astonished  at  the  expletive. 

"  I'm  going  away,"  he  gabbled  on,  only  half  conscious 
of  his  words  in  waves  of  giddy  insecurity.  "  Yes;  for 
good.  .  .  .  I'm  no  use  here!  Shot  to  pieces,  somehow. 
Forgive  me.  Never  get  a  thousand." 

Hallie  Flower  said  in  a  tone  of  unpremeditated  surprise : 

"  Then  I'll  never  be  married!  " 

She  sat  with  her  hands  open  in  her  lap,  a  wistfulness 
on  her  countenance  that  he  found  only  silly.  He  cursed 
himself,  his  impotence,  bitterly.  Now  he  wanted  to  get 
away;  but  there  remained  an  almost  more  impossible  con 
summation —  Hallie's  parents.  They  were  old;  she  was 
an  only  child. 

"Your  father "  he  muttered. 

On  his  feet  he  swayed  like  a  pendulum.  Viselike  fin 
gers  gripped  at  the  back  of  his  neck.  The  hand  of  death? 
Incredibly  he  lived  through  a  stammering,  racking  period, 
in  the  midst  of  which  a  cuckoo  ejaculated  seven  idiotic 
notes  from  the  fretted  face  of  a  clock. 

He  was  on  the  street  again;  the  cruel  pressure  was  re 
laxed;  he  drew  a  deep  breath.  In  his  room,  a  select 
chamber  with  a  "  private  "  family,  he  packed  and  strapped 

[117] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

his  small  leather  trunk.  There  was  nowhere  among  his 
belongings  a  suggestion  of  any  souvenir  of  the  past,  any 
thing  sentimental  or  charged  with  memory.  A  daguer 
reotype  of  Hallie  Flower,  in  an  embossed  black  case  lined 
with  red  plush,  he  ground  into  a  shapeless  fragment. 
Afterward  he  was  shocked  by  what  he  had  done  and  was 
forced  to  seek  the  support  of  a  chair.  He  clenched  his 
jaw,  gazed  with  stony  eyes  against  the  formless  dread 
about  him. 

He  had  forgotten  that  the  next  day  was  Sunday,  with 
a  corresponding  dislocation  of  the  train  and  packet  service 
which  was  to  take  him  West.  A  further  wait  until  Mon 
day  was  necessary.  Alexander  Hulings  got  through  that 
too;  and  was  finally  seated  with  Veneada  in  his  light 
wagon,  behind  a  clattering  pair  of  young  Hambletonians, 
with  the  trunk  secured  in  the  rear.  Veneada  was  taking 
him  to  a  station  on  the  Columbus  Railroad.  Though 
the  morning  had  hardly  advanced,  and  Hulings  had 
wrapped  himself  in  a  heavy  cape,  the  doctor  had  only  a 
duster,  unbuttoned,  on  his  casual  clothing. 

"  You  know,  Alex,"  the  latter  said  — "  and  let  me  finish 
before  you  start  to  object  —  that  I  have  more  money  than 
I  can  use.  And,  though  I  know  you  wouldn't  just  borrow 
any  for  cigars,  if  there  ever  comes  a  time  when  you  need 
a  few  thousands,  if  you  happen  on  something  that  looks 
good  for  both  of  us,  don't  fail  to  let  me  know.  You'll 
pull  out  of  this  depression;  I  think  you're  a  great  man, 
Alex  —  because  you  are  so  unpleasant,  if  for  nothing 
else." 

The  doctor's  weighty  hand  fell  affectionately  on  Hul 
ings'  shoulder. 

[118] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

Hulings  involuntarily  moved  from  the  other's  contact; 
he  wanted  to  leave  all  —  all  of  Eastlake.  Once  away,  he 
was  certain,  his  being  would  clarify,  grow  more  secure. 
He  even  neglected  to  issue  a  characteristic  abrupt  refusal 
of  Veneada's  implied  offer  of  assistance;  though  all  that 
he  possessed,  now  strapped  in  his  wallet,  was  a  meager 
provision  for  a  debilitated  man  who  had  cast  safety  be 
hind  him. 

The  doctor  pulled  his  horses  in  beside  a  small,  box- 
like  station,  on  flat  tracks,  dominated  by  a  stout  pole,  to 
which  was  nailed  a  ladderlike  succession  of  cross  blocks. 

Alexander  Hulings  was  infinitely  relieved  when  the 
other,  after  some  last  professional  injunctions,  drove  away. 
Already,  he  thought,  he  felt  better;  and  he  watched,  with 
a  faint  stirring  of  normal  curiosity,  the  station  master 
climb  the  pole  and  survey  the  mid-distance  for  the  ap 
proaching  train. 

The  engine  finally  rolled  fussily  into  view,  with  a  lurid, 
black  column  of  smoke  pouring  from  a  thin  belled  stack, 
and  dragging  a  rocking,  precarious  brigade  of  chariot 
coaches  scrolled  in  bright  yellow  and  staring  blue.  It 
stopped,  with  a  fretful  ringing  and  a  grinding  impact  of 
coach  on  coach.  Alexander  Hulings'  trunk  was  shoul 
dered  to  a  roof;  and  after  an  inspection  of  the  close  in 
teriors  he  followed  his  baggage  to  an  open  seat  above. 
The  engine  gathered  momentum ;  he  was  jerked  rudely  for 
ward  and  blinded  by  a  cloud  of  smoke  streaked  with 
flaring  cinders. 

There  was  a  faint  cry  at  his  back,  and  he  saw  a  woman 
clutching  a  charring  hole  in  her  crinoline.  The  railroad 
journey  was  an  insuperable  torment;  the  diminishing 
[119] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

crash  at  the  stops,  either  at  a  station  or  where  cut  wood 
was  stacked  to  fire  the  engine,  the  choking  hot  waves  of 
smoke,  the  shouted  confabulations  between  the  captain  and 
the  engineer,  forward  on  his  precarious  ledge  —  all  added 
to  an  excruciating  torture  of  Rulings'  racked  and  shudder 
ing  nerves.  His  rigid  body  was  thrown  from  side  to 
side;  his  spine  seemed  at  the  point  of  splintering  from 
the  pounding  of  the  wooden  rails. 

An  utter  mental  dejection  weighed  down  his  shattered 
being;  it  was  not  the  past  but  the  future  that  oppressed 
him.  Perhaps  he  was  going  only  to  die  miserably  in  an 
obscure  hole;  Veneada  probably  wouldn't  tell  him  the 
truth  about  his  condition.  What  he  most  resented,  with  a 
tenuous  spark  of  his  customary  obstinate  spirit,  was  the 
thought  of  never  justifying  a  belief  he  possessed  in  his 
ultimate  power  to  conquer  circumstance,  to  be  greatly 
successful. 

Veneada,  a  man  without  flattery,  had  himself  used  that 
word  "  great "  in  connection  with  him. 

Alexander  Hulings  felt  dimly,  even  now,  a  sense  of 
cold  power;  a  hunger  for  struggle  different  from  a  petty 
law  practice  in  Eastlake.  He  thought  of  the  iron  that 
James  Claypole  unsuccessfully  wrought;  and  something 
in  the  word,  the  implied  obdurate  material,  fired  his  dis 
integrating  mind.  "  Iron !  "  Unconsciously  he  spoke  the 
word  aloud.  He  was  entirely  ignorant  of  what,  exactly, 
it  meant;  what  were  the  processes  of  its  fluxing  and  re 
finement;  forge  and  furnace  were  hardly  separated  in  his 
thoughts.  But  out  of  the  confusion  emerged  the  one 
concrete  stubborn  fact  —  iron ! 

He  was  drawn,  at  last,  over  a  level  grassy  plain,  at 
[120] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

the  far  edge  of  which  evening  and  clustered  houses 
merged  on  a  silver  expanse  of  river.  It  was  Columbus, 
where  he  found  the  canal  packets  lying  in  the  terminal- 
station  basin. 

II 

The  westbound  packet,  the  Hit  or  Miss,  started  with  a 
long  horn  blast  and  the  straining  of  the  mules  at  the 
towrope.  The  canal  boat  slipped  into  its  placid  banked 
waterway.  Supper  was  being  laid  in  the  gentlemen's 
cabin  and  Alexander  Hulings  was  unable  to  secure  a 
berth.  The  passengers  crowded  at  a  single  long  table; 
and  the  low  interior,  steaming  with  food,  echoing  with 
clattering  china  and  a  ceaseless  gabble  of  voices,  confused 
him  intolerably.  He  made  his  way  to  the  open  space  at 
the  rear.  The  soundless,  placid  movement  at  once 
soothed  him  and  was  exasperating  in  its  slowness.  He 
thought  of  his  journey  as  an  escape,  an  emergence  from 
a  suffocating  cloud;  and  he  raged  at  its  deliberation. 

The  echoing  note  of  a  cornet-a-piston  sounded  from 
the  deck  above;  it  was  joined  by  the  rattle  of  a  drum; 
and  an  energetic  band  swept  into  the  strains  of  Zip 
Coon.  The  passengers  emerged  from  supper  and  gath 
ered  on  the  main  deck;  the  gayly  lighted  windows  streamed 
in  moving  yellow  bars  over  dark  banks  and  fields;  and 
they  were  raised  or  lowered  on  the  pouring  black  tide  of 
masoned  locks.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  infernal  per 
sistence  of  the  band  Alexander  Hulings  would  have  been 
almost  comfortable;  but  the  music,  at  midnight,  showed  no 
signs  of  abating.  Money  was  collected,  whisky  dis 
tributed;  a  quadrille  formed  forward.  Hulings  could 

[121] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

see  the  women's  crinolines,  the  great  sleeves  and  skirts, 
dipping  and  floating  in  a  radiance  of  oil  torches.  He  had 
a  place  in  a  solid  bank  of  chairs  about  the  outer  rail,  and 
sat  huddled  in  his  cape.  His  misery,  as  usual,  increased 
with  the  night ;  the  darkness  was  streaked  with  immaterial 
flashes,  disjointed  visions.  He  was  infinitely  weary,  and 
faint  from  a  hunger  that  he  yet  could  not  satisfy.  A  con 
sequential  male  at  his  side,  past  middle  age,  with  close 
whiskers  and  a  mob  of  seals,  addressed  a  commonplace 
to  him ;  but  he  made  no  reply.  The  other  regarded  Hul- 
ings  with  an  arrogant  surprise,  then  turned  a  negligent 
back.  From  beyond  came  a  clear,  derisive  peal  of  girl 
ish  laughter.  He  heard  a  name  —  Gisela  —  pronounced. 

Alexander  Rulings'  erratic  thoughts  returned  to  iron. 
He  wondered  vaguely  why  James  Claypole  had  never  suc 
ceeded  with  Tubal  Cain.  Probably,  like  so  many  others, 
he  was  a  drunkard.  The  man  who  had  addressed  him 
moved  away  —  he  was  accompanied  by  a  small  party;  and 
another  took  his  vacant  place. 

"  See  who  that  was?  "  he  asked  Hulings.  The  latter 
shook  his  head  morosely.  "  Well,  that,"  the  first  con 
tinued  impressively,  "  is  John  Wooddrop." 

Alexander  Hulings  had  an  uncertain  memory  of  the 
name,  connected  with 

"  Yes,  sir  —  John  Wooddrop,  the  Ironmaster.  I  reckon 
that  man  is  the  biggest  —  not  only  the  richest  but  the  big 
gest —  man  in  the  state.  Thousands  of  acres,  mile  after 
mile;  iron  banks  and  furnaces  and  forges  and  mills;  hun 
dreds  of  men  and  women  —  all  his.  Like  a  European 
monarch!  Yes,  sir;  resembles  that.  Word's  law  —  says 
*  Come  here!  '  or  '  Go  there!  '  His  daughter  is  with  him 

[122] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

too;  it's  clear  she's  got  the  old  boy's  spirit  —  and  his 
lady.  They  get  off  at  Harmony;  own  the  valley;  own 
everything  about." 

Harmony  was  the  place  where  Hulings  was  to  leave 
the  canal ;  from  there  he  must  drive  to  Tubal  Cain.  The 
vicarious  boastfulness  of  his  neighbor  stirred  within  him 
an  inchoate  antagonism. 

"  There  is  one  place  near  by  he  doesn't  own,"  he  stated 
sharply. 

"  Then  it's  no  good,"  the  other  promptly  replied.  "  If 
it  was  Wooddrop  would  have  it.  It  would  be  his  or 
nothing  —  he'd  see  to  that.  His  name  is  Me,  or  nobody." 

Alexander  Hulings'  antagonism  increased  and  illogi- 
cally  fastened  on  the  Ironmaster.  The  other's  character, 
as  it  had  been  stated,  was  precisely  the  quality  that  called 
to  the  surface  his  own  stubborn  will  of  self-assertion.  It 
precipitated  a  condition  in  which  he  expanded,  grew 
determined,  ruthless,  cold. 

He  imagined  himself,  sick  and  almost  moneyless,  and 
bound  for  Claypole's  failure,  opposed  to  John  Wood- 
drop,  and  got  a  faint  thrill  from  the  fantastic  vision.  He 
had  a  recurrence  of  the  conviction  that  he,  too,  was  a 
strong  man;  and  it  tormented  him  with  the  bitter  con 
trast  between  such  an  image  and  his  actual  present  self. 
He  laughed  aloud,  a  thin,  shaken  giggle,  at  his  belief 
persisting  in  the  face  of  such  irrefutable  proof  of  his 
failure.  Nevertheless,  it  was  firmly  lodged  in  him,  like 
a  thorn  pricking  at  his  dissolution,  gathering  his  scattered 
faculties  into  efforts  of  angry  contempt  at  the  laudation 
of  others. 

Veneada  and  Hallie  Flower,  he  realized,  were  the  only 
[123] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

intimates  he  had  gathered  in  a  solitary  and  largely  em 
bittered  existence.  He  had  no  instinctive  humanity  of 
feeling,  and  his  observations,  colored  by  his  spleen,  had 
not  added  to  a  small  opinion  of  man  at  large.  Always 
feeling  himself  to  be  a  figure  of  supreme  importance,  he 
had  never  ceased  to  chafe  at  the  small  aspect  he  was 
obliged  to  exhibit.  This  had  grown,  through  an  uncom 
fortable  sense  of  shame,  to  a  perpetual  disparagement 
of  all  other  triumph  and  success. 

Finally  the  band  ceased  its  efforts,  the  oil  lights  burned 
dim,  and  a  movement  to  the  cabins  proceeded,  leaving  him 
on  a  deserted  deck.  At  last,  utterly  exhausted,  he  went  be 
low  in  search  of  a  berth.  They  hung  four  deep  about  the 
walls,  partly  curtained,  while  the  floor  of  the  cabin  was 
filled  with  clothesracks,  burdened  with  a  miscellany  of 
outer  garments.  One  place  only  was  empty  —  under  the 
ceiling ;  and  he  made  a  difficult  ascent  to  the  narrow  space. 
Sleep  was  an  impossibility  —  a  storm  of  hoarse  breathing, 
muttering  and  sleepy  oaths  dinned  on  his  ears.  The 
cabin,  closed  against  the  outer  air,  grew  indescribably 
polluted.  Any  former  torment  of  mind  and  body  was 
minor  compared  to  the  dragging  wakeful  hours  that  fol 
lowed;  a  dread  of  actual  insanity  seized  him. 

Almost  at  the  first  trace  of  dawn  the  cabin  was  awak 
ened  and  filled  with  fragmentary  dressing.  The  deck 
and  bar  were  occupied  by  men  waiting  for  the  appear 
ance  of  the  feminine  passengers  from  their  cabin  for 
ward,  and  breakfast.  The  day  was  warm  and  fine.  The 
packet  crossed  a  turgid  river,  at  the  mouths  of  other 
canal  routes,  and  entered  a  wide  pastoral  valley. 

Alexander  Hulings  sat  facing  a  smaller,  various  river; 
[124] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

at  his  back  was  a  barrier  of  mountains,  glossy  with  early 
laurel  and  rhododendron.  His  face  was  yellow  and 
sunken,  and  his  lips  dry.  John  Wooddrop  passed  and 
repassed  him,  a  girl,  his  daughter  Gisela,  on  his  arm. 
She  wore  an  India  muslin  dress,  wide  with  crinoline,  em 
broidered  in  flowers  of  blue  and  green  worsted,  and  a 
flapping  rice-straw  hat  draped  in  blond  lace.  Her  face 
was  pointed  and  alert. 

Once  Hulings  caught  her  glance,  and  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  seemed  black  and  —  and  —  impertinent. 

An  air  of  palpable  satisfaction  emanated  from  the 
Ironmaster.  His  eyes  were  dark  too;  and,  more  than 
impertinent,  they  held  for  Hulings  an  intolerable  pa 
tronage.  John  Wooddrop's  foot*  trod  the  deck  with  a 
solid  authority  that  increased  the  sick  man's  smoldering 
scorn.  At  dinner  he  had  an  actual  encounter  with  the 
other.  The  table  was  filling  rapidly;  Alexander  Hulings 
had  taken  a  place  when  Wooddrop  entered  with  his 
group  and  surveyed  the  seats  that  remained. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you,"  he  addressed  Hulings  in  a 
deep  voice,  "  to  move  over  yonder.  That  will  allow  my 
family  to  surround  me." 

A  sudden  unreasonable  determination  not  to  move 
seized  Hulings.  He  said  nothing ;  he  didn't  turn  his  head 
nor  disturb  his  position.  John  Wooddrop  repeated  his  re 
quest  in  still  more  vibrant  tones.  Hulings  did  nothing. 
He  was  held  in  a  silent  rigidity  of  position. 

"  You,  sir,"  Wooddrop  pronounced  loudly,  "  are  de 
ficient  in  the  ordinary  courtesies  of  travel !  And  note  this, 
Mrs.  Wooddrop  " —  he  turned  to  his  wife  — "  I  shall  never 
again,  in  spite  of  Gisela's  importunities,  move  by  public 

[12S] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

conveyance.     The  presence  of  individuals  like  this " 

Alexander  Hulings  rose  and  faced  the  older,  infinitely 
more  important  man.  His  sunken  eyes  blazed  with  such 
a  feverish  passion  that  the  other  raised  an  involuntary 
palm. 

"  Individuals,"  he  added,  "  painfully  afflicted." 
Suddenly  Hulings'   weakness   betrayed   him;    he  col 
lapsed  in  his  chair  with  a  pounding  heart  and  blurred 
vision.     The   incident   receded,   became   merged   in   the 
resumption  of  the  commonplace  clatter  of  dinner. 

Once  more  on  deck,  Alexander  Hulings  was  aware  that 
he  had  appeared  both  inconsequential  and  ridiculous,  two 
qualities  supremely  detestable  to  his  pride;  and  this 
added  to  his  bitterness  toward  the  Ironmaster.  He  de 
termined  to  extract  satisfaction  from  the  other  for  his 
humiliation.  It  was  characteristic  of  Hulings  that  he 
saw  himself  essentially  as  John  Wooddrop's  equal ;  worldly 
circumstance  had  no  power  to  impress  him;  he  was 
superior  to  the  slightest  trace  of  the  complacent  inferiority 
exhibited  by  last  night's  casual  informer. 

The  day  waned  monotonously;  half  dazed  with  weari 
ness  he  heard  bursts  of  music;  far,  meaningless  voices; 
the  blowing  of  the  packet  horn.  He  didn't  go  down  again 
into  the  cabin  to  sleep,  but  stayed  wrapped  in  his  cloak  in 
a  chair.  He  slept  through  the  dawn  and  woke  only  at 
the  full  activity  of  breakfast.  Past  noon  the  boat  tied 
up  at  Harmony.  The  Wooddrops  departed  with  all  the 
circumstance  of  worldly  importance,  and  in  the  stir  of 
cracking  whip  and  restive,  spirited  horses.  Alexander 
Hulings  moved  unobserved,  with  his  trunk,  to  the  bank. 
Tubal  Cain,  he  discovered,  was  still  fifteen  miles  dis- 
[126] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

tant,  and  —  he  had  not  told  James  Claypole  of  his  in 
tended  arrival  —  no  conveyance  was  near  by.  A  wagon 
drawn  by  six  mules  with  gay  bells  and  colored  streamers 
and  heavily  loaded  with  limestone  finally  appeared,  go 
ing  north,  on  which  Hulings  secured  passage. 

The  precarious  road  followed  a  wooded  ridge,  with  a 
vigorous  stream  on  the  right  and  a  wall  of  hills  beyond. 
The  valley  was  largely  uninhabited.  Once  they  passed 
a  solid,  foursquare  structure  of  stone,  built  against  a  hill, 
with  clustered  wooden  sheds  and  a  great  wheel  revolving 
under  a  smooth  arc  of  water.  A  delicate  white  vapor 
trailed  from  the  top  of  the  masonry,  accompanied  by 
rapid,  clear  flames. 

"  Blue  Lump  Furnace,"  the  wagon  driver  briefly  volun 
teered.  "  Belongs  to  Wooddrop.  But  that  doesn't  sig 
nify  anything  about  here.  Pretty  near  everything's  his." 

Alexander  Hulings  looked  back,  with  an  involuntary 
deep  interest  in  the  furnace.  The  word  "  iron  "  again  vi 
brated,  almost  clanged,  through  his  mind.  It  temporarily 
obliterated  the  fact  that  here  was  another  evidence  of 
the  magnitude,  the  possessions,  of  John  Wooddrop.  He 
was  consumed  by  a  sudden  anxiety  to  see  James  Claypole's 
forge.  Why  hadn't  the  fool  persisted,  succeeded? 

"Tubal  Cain's  in  there."  The  mules  were  stopped. 
"  What  there  is  of  it !  Four  bits  will  be  enough." 

He  was  left  beside  his  trunk  on  the  roadside,  clouded  by 
the  dust  of  the  wagon's  departure.  Behind  him,  in  the 
direction  indicated,  the  ground,  covered  with  underbrush, 
fell  away  to  a  glint  of  water  and  some  obscure  structures. 
Dragging  his  baggage  he  made  his  way  down  to  a  long 
wooden  shed,  the  length  facing  him  open  on  two  covered 

[127] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

hearths,  some  dilapidated  troughs,  a  suspended  ponderous 
hammer  resting  on  an  anvil,  and  a  miscellaneous  heap  of 
rusting  iron  implements  —  long-jawed  tongs,  hooked  rods, 
sledges  and  broken  castings.  The  hearths  were  cold ;  there 
was  not  a  stir  of  life,  of  activity,  anywhere. 

Hulings  left  his  trunk  in  a  clearing  and  explored  far 
ther.  Beyond  a  black  heap  of  charcoal,  standing  among 
trees,  were  two  or  three  small  stone  dwellings.  The  first 
was  apparently  empty,  with  some  whitened  sacks  on  a 
bare  floor;  but  within  a  second  he  saw  through  the  open 
doorway  the  lank  figure  of  a  man  kneeling  in  prayer. 
His  foot  was  on  the  sill;  but  the  bowed  figure,  turned 
away,  remained  motionless. 

Alexander  Hulings  hesitated,  waiting  for  the  prayer  to 
reach  a  speedy  termination.  But  the  other,  with  upraised, 
quivering  hands,  remained  so  long  on  his  knees  that  Hul 
ings  swung  the  door  back  impatiently.  Even  then  an 
appreciable  time  elapsed  before  the  man  inside  rose  to  his 
feet.  He  turned  and  moved  forward,  with  an  abstracted 
gaze  in  pale-blue  eyes  set  in  a  face  seamed  and  scored  by 
time  and  disease.  His  expression  was  benevolent;  his 
voice  warm  and  cordial. 

"  I  am  Alexander  Hulings,"  that  individual  briefly 
stated;  "  and  I  suppose  you're  Claypole." 

The  latter's  condition,  he  thought  instantaneously,  was 
entirely  described  by  his  appearance.  James  Claypole's 
person  was  as  neglected  as  the  forge.  His  stained 
breeches  were  engulfed  in  scarred  leather  boots,  and  a 
coarse  black  shirt  was  open  on  a  gaunt  chest. 

His  welcome  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  The  dwelling 
into  which  he  conducted  Hulings  consisted  of  a  single 

[128] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

room,  with  a  small  shed  kitchen  at  the  rear  and  two  nar 
row  chambers  above.  There  was  a  pleasant  absence  of 
apology  for  the  meager  accommodations.  James  Clay- 
pole  was  an  entirely  unaffected  and  simple  host. 

The  late  April  evening  was  warm;  and  after  a  sup 
per,  prepared  by  Claypole,  of  thick  bacon,  potatoes  and 
saleratus  biscuit,  the  two  men  sat  against  the  outer  wall 
of  the  house.  On  the  left  Hulings  could  see  the  end  of 
the  forge  shed,  with  the  inevitable  water  wheel  hung  in 
a  channel  cut  from  the  clear  stream.  The  stream  wrinkled 
and  whispered  along  spongy  banks,  and  a  flicker  ham 
mered  on  a  resonant  limb.  Hulings  stated  negligently 
that  he  had  arrived  on  the  same  packet  with  John  Wood- 
drop,  and  Claypole  retorted: 

"  A  man  lost  in  the  world !  I  tried  to  wrestle  with  his 
spirit,  but  it  was  harder  than  the  walls  of  Jericho." 

His  eyes  glowed  with  fervor.  Hulings  regarded  him 
curiously.  A  religious  fanatic!  He  asked: 

"What's  been  the  trouble  with  Tubal  Cain?  Other 
forges  appear  to  flourish  about  here.  This  Wooddrop 
seems  to  have  built  a  big  thing  with  iron." 

"Mammon!"  Claypole  stated.  "  Slag;  dross!  Not 
this,  but  the  Eternal  World."  The  other  failed  to  com 
prehend,  and  he  said  so  irritably.  "  All  that,"  Claypole 
specified,  waving  toward  the  forge,  "  takes  the  thoughts 
from  the  Supreme  Being.  Eager  for  the  Word,  and  a  poor 
speller-out  of  the  Book,  you  can't  spend  priceless  hours 
shingling  blooms.  And  then  the  men  left,  one  after  an 
other,  because  I  stopped  pandering  to  their  carnal  ap 
petites.  No  one  can  indulge  in  rum  here,  in  a  place  of 
mine  sealed  to  God." 

[129] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

"  Do  you  mean  that  whisky  was  a  part  of  their  pay 
and  that  you  held  it  back?  "  Alexander  Hulings  demanded 
curtly.  He  was  without  the  faintest  sympathy  for  what 
he  termed  such  arrant  folly. 

"  Yes,  just  that;  a  brawling,  froward  crew.  Wood- 
drop  wanted  to  buy,  but  I  wouldn't  extend  his  wicked 
dominion,  satisfy  fleshly  lust." 

"It's  a  good  forge,  then?" 

"  None  better!  I  built  her  mostly  myself,  when  I  was 
laying  up  the  treasure  that  rusted;  stone  on  stone,  log  on 
log.  Heavy,  slow  work.  The  sluice  is  like  a  city  wall; 
the  anvil  bedded  on  seven  feet  of  oak.  It's  right!  But  if 
I'd  known  then  I  should  have  put  up  a  temple  to  Je 
hovah." 

Hulings  could  scarcely  contain  his  impatience. 

"  Why,"  he  ejaculated,  "  you  might  have  made  a  fine 
thing  out  of  it!  Opportunity,  opportunity,  and  you  let 
it  go  by.  For  sheer " 

He  broke  off  at  a  steady  gaze  from  Claypole's  calm  blue 
eyes.  It  was  evident  that  he  would  have  to  restrain  any 
injudicious  characterizations  of  the  other's  belief.  He 
spoke  suddenly: 

"  I  came  up  here  because  I  was  sick  and  had  to  get 
out  of  Eastlake.  I  left  everything  but  what  little  money 
I  had.  You  see  —  I  was  a  failure.  I'd  like  to  stay 
with  you  a  while;  when  perhaps  I  might  get  on  my  feet 
again.  I  feel  easier  than  I  have  for  weeks,"  he  real 
ized,  surprised,  that  this  was  so.  He  had  a  conviction 
that  he  could  sleep  here,  by  the  stream,  in  the  still,  flower 
ing  woods.  "  I  haven't  any  interest  in  temples,"  he  con 
tinued;  "  but  I  guess  —  two  men  —  we  won't  argue  about 

[130] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

that.  Some  allowance  on  both  sides.  But  I  am  inter 
ested  in  iron;  I'd  like  to  know  this  forge  of  yours  back 
ward.  I've  discovered  a  sort  of  hankering  after  the 
idea;  just  that  —  iron.  It's  a  tremendous  fact,  and  you 
can  keep  it  from  rusting." 

Ill 

The  following  morning  Claypole  showed  Alexander 
Hulings  the  mechanics  of  Tubal  Cain.  A  faint  reminis 
cent  pride  shone  through  the  later  unworldly  preoccupa 
tion.  He  lifted  the  sluice  gate,  and  the  water  poured 
through  the  masoned  channel  of  the  forebay  and  set  in 
motion  the  wheel,  hung  with  its  lower  paddles  in  the 
course.  In  the  forge  shed  Claypole  bound  a  connection, 
and  the  short  haft  of  the  trip  hammer,  caught  in  revolv 
ing  cogs,  raised  the  ponderous  head  and  dropped  it,  with 
a  jarring  clang,  on  the  anvil.  The  blast  of  the  hearths 
was  driven  by  water  wind,  propelled  by  a  piston  in  a 
wood  cylinder,  with  an  air  chamber  for  even  pressure. 
It  was  all  so  elemental  that  the  neglect  of  the  last  years 
had  but  spread  over  the  forge  an  appearance  of  ill  re 
pair.  Actually  it  was  as  sound  as  the  clear  oak  largely 
used  in  its  construction. 

James  Claypole's  interest  soon  faded;  he  returned  to 
his  chair  by  the  door  of  the  dwelling,  where  he  labori 
ously  spelled  out  the  periods  of  a  battered  copy  of  Addi- 
son's  "  Evidences  of  the  Christian  Religion."  He  broke 
the  perusal  with  frequent,  ecstatic  ejaculations;  and  when 
Hulings  reluctantly  returned  from  his  study  of  the  forge 
the  other  was  again  on  his  knees,  lost  in  passionate  prayer. 

[131] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

Hulings  grew  hungry  —  Claypole  was  utterly  lost  in  vi 
sions  —  cooked  some  bacon  and  found  cold  biscuit  in  the 
shedlike  kitchen. 

The  afternoon  passed  into  a  tenderly  perfumed  twi 
light.  The  forge  retreated,  apparently  through  the  trees, 
into  the  evening.  Alexander  Hulings  sat  regarding  it 
with  an  increasing  impatience;  first,  it  annoyed  him  to  see 
such  a  potentiality  of  power  lying  fallow,  and  then  his 
annoyance  ripened  into  an  impatience  with  Claypole  that 
he  could  scarcely  contain.  The  impracticable  ass!  It 
was  a  crime  to  keep  the  wheel  stationary,  the  hearths 
cold. 

He  had  a  sudden  burning  desire  to  see  Tubal  Cain 
stirring  with  life;  to  hear  the  beat  of  the  hammer  forging 
iron;  to  see  the  dark,  still  interior  lurid  with  fire.  He 
thought  again  of  John  Wooddrop,  and  his  instinctive  dis 
paragement  of  the  accomplishments  of  others  mocked  both 
them  and  himself.  If  he,  Alexander  Hulings,  had  had 
Claypole's  chance,  his" beginning,  he  would  be  more  power 
ful  than  Wooddrop  now. 

The  law  was  a  trivial  foolery  compared  to  the  fashion 
ing,  out  of  the  earth  itself,  of  iron.  Iron,  the  indis 
pensable!  Railroads,  in  spite  of  the  popular,  vulgar  dis 
belief,  were  a  coming  great  factor;  a  thousand  new  uses, 
refinements,  improved  processes  of  manufacture  were 
bound  to  develop.  His  thoughts  took  fire  and  swept  over 
him  in  a  conflagration  of  enthusiasm.  By  heaven,  if 
Claypole  had  failed  he  would  succeed!  He,  too,  would 
be  an  Ironmaster! 

A  brutal  chill  overtook  him  with  the  night;  he  shook 
pitiably;  dark  fears  crept  like  noxious  beetles  among  his 

[132] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

thoughts.  James  Claypole  sat,  with  his  hands  on  his 
gaunt  knees,  gazing,  it  might  be,  at  a  miraculous  golden 
city  beyond  the  black  curtain  of  the  world.  Later  Hul- 
ings  lay  on  a  couch  of  boards,  folded  in  coarse  blankets 
and  his  cape,  fighting  the  familiar  evil  sinking  of  his 
oppressed  spirit.  He  was  cold  and  yet  drenched  with 
sweat  ...  if  he  were  defeated  now,  he  thought,  if  he 
collapsed,  he  was  done,  shattered!  And  in  his  swirling 
mental  anguish  he  clung  to  one  stable,  cool  fact;  he  saw, 
like  Claypole,  a  vision;  but  not  gold  —  great  shadowy 
masses  of  iron.  Before  dawn  the  dread  receded;  he  fell 
asleep. 

He  questioned  his  companion  at  breakfast  about  the 
details  of  forging. 

"The  secret,"  the  latter  stated,  "is  — timber;  wood, 
charcoal.  It's  bound  to  turn  up;  fuel  famine  will  come, 
unless  it  is  provided  against.  That's  where  John  Wood- 
drop's  light.  He  counts  on  getting  it  as  he  goes.  A 
furnace'll  burn  five  or  six  thousand  cords  of  wood  every 
little  while,  and  that  means  two  hundred  or  more 
acres.  Back  of  Harmony,  here,  are  miles  of  timber 
the  old  man  won't  loose  up  right  for.  He  calculates 
no  one  else  can  profit  with  them  and  takes  his  own 
time." 

"  What  does  Wooddrop  own  in  the  valleys?  " 

"Well  — there's  Sally  Furnace;  the  Poole  Sawmill 
tract;  the  Medlar  Forge  and  Blue  Lump;  the  coal  holes 
on  Allen  Mountain;  Marta  Furnace  and  Reeba  Furnace 
—  they  ain't  right  hereabouts;  the  Lode  Orebank;  the 
Blossom  Furnace  and  Charming  Forges;  Middle  and  Low 

Green  Forges;  the  Auspacher  Farm " 

[133] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

"That  will  do,"  Hulings  interrupted  him  moodily; 
"  I'm  not  an  assessor." 

Envy  lashed  his  determination  to  surprising  heights. 
Claypole  grew  uncommunicative,  except  for  vague  refer 
ences  to  the  Kingdom  at  hand  and  the  dross  of  carnal  de 
sire.  Finally,  without  a  preparatory  word,  he  strode  away 
and  disappeared  over  the  rise  toward  the  road.  At  sup 
per  he  had  not  returned;  there  was  no  trace  of  him  when, 
inundated  with  sleep,  Hulings  shut  the  dwelling  for  the 
night.  All  the  following  day  Alexander  Hulings  ex 
pected  his  host;  he  spent  the  hours  avidly  studying  the 
implements  of  forging;  but  the  other  did  not  appear. 
Neither  did  he  the  next  day,  nor  the  next. 

Hulings  was  surprisingly  happy;  entirely  alone,  but 
for  the  hidden  passage  of  wagons  on  the  road  and  the 
multitudinous  birds  that  inhabited  the  stream's  edge,  in 
the  peaceful,  increasing  warmth  of  the  days  and  nights 
his  condition  slowly  improved.  He  bought  supplies  at 
the  packet  station  on, the  canal  and  shortly  became  as 
proficient  at  the  stove  as  James  Claypole.  Through  the 
day  he  sat  in  the  mild  sunlight  or  speculated  among  the 
implements  of  the  forge.  He  visualized  the  process  of 
iron  making;  the  rough  pigs  —  there  were  sows,  too,  he  had 
gathered  —  lying  outside  the  shed  had  come  from  the 
furnace.  These  were  put  into  the  hearths  and  melted  — 
stirred  perhaps;  then  —  what  were  the  wooden  troughs 
for? —  hammered,  wrought  on  the  anvil.  Outside  were 
other  irregularly  round  pieces  of  iron,  palpably  closer  in 
texture  than  the  pig.  The  forging  of  them,  he  was  cer 
tain,  had  been  completed.  There  were,  also,  heavy  bars, 
three  feet  in  length,  squared  at  each  end. 

[134] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

Everything  had  been  dropped  apparently  at  the  mo 
ment  of  James  Claypole's  absorbing  view  of  another, 
transcending  existence.  Late  in  an  afternoon  —  it  was 
May  —  he  heard  footfalls  descending  from  the  road ;  with 
a  sharp,  unreasoning  regret,  he  thought  the  other  had  re 
turned.  But  it  was  a  short,  ungainly  man  with  a  purplish 
face  and  impressive  shoulders.  "Where's  Jim?"  he 
asked  with  a  marked  German  accent. 

Alexander  Hulings  told  him  who  he  was  and  all  he 
knew  about  Claypole. 

"  I'm  Conrad  Wishon,"  the  newcomer  stated,  sinking 
heavily  into  a  chair.  "  Did  Jim  speak  of  me  —  his  head 
f orgeman  ?  No !  But  I  guess  he  told  you  how  he  stopped 
the  schnapps.  Ha!  James  got  religion.  And  he  went 
away  two  weeks  ago?  Maybe  he'll  never  be  back.  This  " 
—  he  waved  toward  the  forge  — "  means  nothing  to  him. 

"  I  live  twenty  miles  up  the  road,  and  I  saw  a  Glory- 
wagon  coming  on  —  an  old  Conestoga,  with  the  Bible 
painted  on  the  canvas,  a  traveling  Shouter  slapping  the 
reins,  and  a  congregation  of  his  family  staring  out  the 
back.  James  would  take  up  with  a  thing  like  that  in  a 
shot.  Yes,  sir;  maybe  now  you  will  never  see  him  again. 
And  your  mother's  cousin!  There's  no  other  kin  I've 
heard  of;  and  I  was  with  him  longer  than  the  rest." 

Hulings  listened  with  growing  interest  to  the  equable 
flow  of  Conrad  Wishon's  statements  and  mild  surprise. 

"  Things  have  been  bad  with  me,"  the  smith  contin 
ued.  "  My  wife,  she  died  Thursday  before  breakfast, 
and  one  thing  and  another.  A  son  has  charge  of  a 
coaling  gang  on  Allen  Mountain,  but  I'm  too  heavy  for 
that;  and  I  was  going  down  to  Green  Forge  when  I 

[135] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

thought  I'd  stop  and  see  Jim.  But,  hell!  —  Jim's  gone; 
like  as  not  on  the  Glorywagon.  I  can  get  a  place  at  any 
hearth,"  he  declared  pridefully.  "  I'm  a  good  forger; 
none  better  in  Hamilton  County.  When  it's  shingling  a 
loop  I  can  show  'em  all!  " 

"  Have  some  supper,"  Alexander  Hulings  offered. 

They  sat  late  into  the  fragrant  night,  with  the  moon 
light  patterned  like  a  grey  carpet  at  their  feet,  talking 
about  the  smithing  of  iron.  Conrad  Wishon  revealed  the 
practical  grasp  of  a  life  capably  spent  at  a  single  task, 
and  Hulings  questioned  him  with  an  increasing  compre 
hension. 

"  If  you  had  money,"  Wishon  explained,  "  we  could  do 
something  right  here.  I'd  like  to  work  old  Tubal  Cain. 
I  understand  her." 

The  other  asked :     "  How  much  would  it  take  ?  " 

Conrad  Wishon  spread  out  his  hands  hopelessly.  "  A 
lot;  and  then  a  creekful  back  of  that!  Soon  as  Wooddrop 
heard  the  trip  hammer  he'd  be  after  you  to  close  you  down. 
Do  it  in  a  hundred  ways  —  no  teaming  principally." 

Hulings'  antagonism  to  John  Wooddrop  increased  per 
ceptibly;  he  became  obsessed  by  the  fantastic  thought  of 
founding  himself  —  Tubal  Cain  —  triumphantly  in  the 
face  of  the  established  opposition.  But  he  had  nothing 
—  no  money,  knowledge,  or  even  a  robust  person.  Yet 
his  will  to  succeed  in  the  valleys  hardened  into  a  con 
crete  aim  .  .  .  Conrad  Wishon  would  be  invaluable. 

The  latter  stayed  through  the  night  and  even  lingered, 
after  breakfast,  into  the  morning.  He  was  reluctant  to 
leave  the  familiar  scene  of  long  toil.  They  were  sitting 
lost  in  discussion  when  the  beat  of  horses'  hoofs  was  ar- 

[136] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

rested  on  the  road,  and  a  snapping  of  underbrush  an 
nounced  the  appearance  of  a  young  man  with  a  keen, 
authoritative  countenance. 

"  Mr.  James  Claypole?  "  he  asked,  addressing  them 
collectively. 

Alexander  Hulings  explained  what  he  could  of  Clay- 
pole's  absence. 

"  It  probably  doesn't  matter,"  the  other  returned.  "  I 
was  told  the  forge  wasn't  run,  for  some  foolishness  or 
other."  He  turned  to  go. 

"  What  did  you  want  with  him  — with  Tubal  Cain?  " 
Conrad  Wishon  asked. 

"  Twenty-five  tons  of  blooms." 

"  Now  if  this  was  ten  years  back " 

The  young  man  interrupted  the  smith,  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience,  and  turned  to  go.  Hulings  asked  Conrad 
Wishon  swiftly: 

"  Could  it  be  done  here?  Could  the  men  be  got ?  And 
what  would  it  cost?  " 

"It  could,"  said  Wishon;  "they  might,  and  a  thou 
sand  dollars  would  perhaps  see  it  through." 

Hulings  sharply  called  the  retreating  figure  back. 
"  Something  more  about  this  twenty-five  tons,"  he  de 
manded. 

"  For  the  Penn  Rolling  Mills,"  the  other  crisply  re 
plied.  "  We're  asking  for  delivery  in  five  weeks,  but 
that  might  be  extended  a  little  —  at,  of  course,  a  loss  on 
the  ton.  The  quality  must  be  first  grade." 

Wishon  grunted. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  blooms  I  made  would  hardly 
need  blistering  to  be  called  steel." 

[1371 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

"  I'm  Philip  Grere,"  the  newcomer  stated,  "  of  Grere 
Brothers,  and  they're  the  Penn  Rolling  Mills.  We  want 
good  blooms  soon  as  possible  and  it  seems  there's  almost 
none  loose.  If  you  can  talk  iron,  immediate  iron,  let's 
get  it  on  paper;  if  not  I  have  a  long  way  to  drive." 

When  he  had  gone  Conrad  Wishon  sat  staring,  with 
mingled  astonishment  and  admiration,  at  Hulings. 

"  But,"  he  protested,  "  you  don't  know  nothing  about 
it!" 

"  You  do!  "  Alexander  Hulings  told  him;  he  saw  him 
self  as  a  mind,  of  which  Wishon  formed  the  trained  and 
powerful  body. 

"  Perhaps  Jim  will  come  back,"  the  elder  man  con 
tinued. 

"  That  is  a  possibility,"  Alexander  admitted.  "  But 
I  am  going  to  put  every  dollar  I  own  into  the  chance  of 
finishing  those  twenty-five  tons." 

The  smith  persisted:  "  But  you  don't  know  me;  per 
haps  I'm  a  rascal  and  can't  tell  a  puddling  furnace  from 
a  chafery." 

Hulings  regarded  him  shrewdly. 

"Conrad,"  he  demanded,  "  can  Tubal  Cain  do  it?" 

"  By  Gott"  Wishon  exclaimed,  "  she  can!  " 

After  an  hour  of  close  calculation  Conrad  Wishon  rose 
with  surprising  agility. 

"  I've  got  enough  to  do  besides  sitting  here.  Tubal 
Cain  ought  to  have  twenty  men,  anyhow;  perhaps  I  can 
get  eight.  There's  Mathias  Slough,  a  good  hammer 
man.  He  broke  an  elbow  at  Charming  and  Wooddrop 
won't  have  him  back;  but  he  can  work  still.  Hance,  a 
good  nigger,  is  at  my  place,  and  there  is  another  —  Surrie. 

[138] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

Haines  Zerbey,  too,  worked  at  refining,  but  you'll  need 
to  watch  his  rum.  Perhaps  Old  Man  Boeshore  will  lend 
a  hand,  and  he's  got  a  strapping  grandson  —  Emanuel. 
Jeremiah  Stell  doesn't  know  much,  but  he'd  let  you  cut  a 
finger  off  for  a  dollar."  He  shook  his  head  gravely. 
"  That  is  a  middling  poor  collection." 

Alexander  Hulings  felt  capable  of  operating  Tubal 
Cain  successfully  with  a  shift  of  blind  paralytics.  A  con 
viction  of  power,  of  vast  capability,  possessed  him.  Sud 
denly  he  seemed  to  have  become  a  part  of  the  world  that 
moved,  of  its  creative  energy;  he  was  like  a  piece  of  ma 
chinery  newly  connected  with  the  forceful  driving  whole. 
Conrad  Wishon  had  promised  to  return  the  next  day  with 
the  men  he  had  enumerated,  and  Alexander  opened  the 
small  scattered  buildings  about  the  forge.  There  were, 
he  found,  sufficient  living  provisions  for  eight  or  ten 
men  out  of  a  moldering  quantity  of  primitive  bed  furnish 
ings,  rusted  tin  and  cracked  glass.  But  it  was  fortunate 
that  the  days  were  steadily  growing  warmer. 

Wishon  had  directed  him  to  clean  out  the  channel  of 
the  forebay,  and  throughout  the  latter  half  of  the  day  he 
was  tearing  heavy  weeds  from  the  interstices  of  the  stones, 
laboring  in  a  chill  slime  that  soon  completely  covered 
him.  He  removed  heavy  rocks,  matted  dead  bushes, 
banked  mud;  and  after  an  hour  he  was  cruelly,  impossi 
bly  weary.  He  slipped  and  bruised  a  shoulder,  cut 
open  his  cheek;  but  he  impatiently  spat  out  the  blood  trail 
ing  into  his  mouth,  and  continued  working.  His  weari 
ness  became  a  hell  of  acute  pain;  without  manual  prac 
tice  his  movements  were  clumsy;  he  wasted  what  strength 
he  had.  Yet  as  his  suffering  increased  he  grew  only  more 

[139] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

relentlessly  methodical  in  the  execution  of  his  task.  He 
picked  out  insignificant  obstructions,  scraped  away  grass 
that  offered  no  resistance  to  the  water  power.  When  he 
had  finished,  the  forebay,  striking  in  at  an  angle  from  the 
stream  to  the  wheel,  was  meticulously  clean. 

He  stumbled  into  his  dwelling  and  fell  on  the  bed, 
almost  instantly  asleep,  without  removing  a  garment,  caked 
with  filth ;  and  never  stirred  until  the  sun  again  flooded  the 
room.  He  cooked  and  ravenously  ate  a  tremendous  break 
fast,  and  then  forced  himself  to  walk  the  dusty  miles  that 
lay  between  Tubal  Cain  and  the  canal.  His  legs  seemed 
to  be  totally  without  joints  and  his  spine  felt  like  a  white- 
hot  bar.  At  the  store  about  which  the  insignificant  vil 
lage  of  Harmony  clustered  he  ordered  and  paid  for  a  great 
box  of  supplies,  later  carried  by  an  obliging  teamster  and 
himself  to  the  forge. 

Once  more  there,  he  addressed  himself  to  digging  out 
the  slag  that  had  hardened  in  the  hearths.  The  lightest 
bar  soon  became  insuperably  ponderous;  it  wabbled  in  his 
grasp,  evaded  its  purpose.  Vicious  tears  streamed  over 
his  blackened  countenance  and  he  maintained  a  constant 
audible  flow  of  bitter  invective.  But  even  that  arduous 
task  was  nearly  accomplished  when  dark  overtook  him. 

He  stripped  off  his  garments,  dropping  them  where  he 
stood,  by  the  forge  shed,  and  literally  fell  forward  into  the 
stream.  The  cold  shock  largely  revived  him  and  he 
supped  on  huge  tins  of  coffee  and  hard  flitch.  Imme 
diately  after  he  dropped  asleep  as  if  he  had  been  knocked 
unconscious  by  a  club. 

At  midmorning  he  heard  a  rattle  of  conveyance  from  the 
road  and  his  name  called.  Above  he  found  a  wagon,  with- 

[140] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

out  a  top,  filled  with  the  sorriest  collection  of  humanity 
he  had  ever  viewed,  and  drawn  by  a  dejected  bony  horse 
and  a  small  wicked  mule. 

"  Here  they  are,"  Conrad  Wishon  announced;  "  and 
Hance  brought  along  his  girl  to  cook." 

Mathias  Slough,  the  hammerman,  was  thin  and  grey,  as 
if  his  face  were  covered  with  cobwebs;  Hance,  Conrad's 
"  nigger,"  black  as  an  iron  bloom,  was  carrying  upside 
down  a  squawking  hen;  Surrie,  lighter,  had  a  dropped 
jaw  and  hands  that  hung  below  his  knees;  Haines  Zerbey 
had  pale,  swimming  eyes,  and  executed  a  salute  with  a 
battered  flat  beaver  hat;  Old  Man  Boeshore  resembled  a 
basin,  bowed  in  at  the  stomach,  his  mouth  had  sunk  on 
toothless  gums,  but  there  was  agility  in  his  step;  while 
Emanuel,  his  grandson,  a  towering  hulk  of  youth,  pre 
sented  a  facial  expanse  of  mingled  pimples  and  down. 
Jeremiah  Stell  was  a  small,  shriveled  man,  with  dead- 
white  hair  on  a  smooth,  pinkish  countenance. 

Standing  aside  from  the  nondescript  assemblage  of 
men  and  transient  garments,  Alexander  Hulings  surveyed 
them  with  cold  determination ;  two  emotions  possessed  him 
—  one  of  an  almost  humorous  dismay  at  the  slack  figures 
on  whom  so  much  depended;  and  a  second,  stronger  con 
viction  that  he  could  force  his  purpose  even  from  them. 
They  were,  in  a  manner,  his  first  command;  his  first  ma 
terial  from  which  to  build  the  consequence,  the  success, 
that  he  felt  was  his  true  expression. 

He  addressed  a  few  brief  periods  to  them;  and  there 
was  no  warmth,  no  effort  to  conciliate,  in  his  tones,  his 
dry  statement  of  a  heavy  task  for  a  merely  adequate  gain. 
He  adopted  this  attitude  instinctively,  without  fore- 

[141] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

thought;  he  was  dimly  conscious,  as  a  principle,  that  un 
derpaid  men  were  more  easily  driven  than  those  overfully 
rewarded.  And  he  intended  to  drive  the  men  before  him 
to  the  limit  of  their  capability.  They  had  no  individual 
existence  for  Alexander  Hulings,  no  humanity;  they  were 
merely  the  implements  of  a  projection  of  his  own;  their 
names  —  Haines  Zerbey,  Slough  —  had  no  more  signifi 
cance  than  the  terms  bellows  or  tongs. 

They  scattered  to  the  few  habitations  by  the  stream, 
structures  mostly  of  logs  and  plaster;  and  in  a  little  while 
there  rose  the  odorous  smoke  and  sputtering  fat  of  Hance's 
girl's  cooking.  Conrad  Wishon  soon  started  the  labor  of 
preparing  the  forge.  Jeremiah  Stell,  who  had  some  slight 
knowledge  of  carpentry,  was  directed  to  repair  the  plunger 
of  the  water-wind  apparatus.  Slough  was  testing  the  beat 
and  control  of  the  trip  hammer.  Hance  and  Surrie  car 
ried  outside  the  neglected  heaps  of  iron  hooks  and  tongs. 
Conrad  explained  to  Alexander  Hulings: 

"  I  sent  word  to  my  son  about  the  charcoal ;  he'll  leave 
it  at  my  place,  but  we  shall  have  to  haul  it  from  there. 
Need  another  mule  —  maybe  two.  There's  enough  pig 
here  to  start,  and  my  idea  is  to  buy  all  we  will  need  now 
at  Blue  Lump;  they'll  lend  us  a  sled,  so's  we  will  have 
it  in  case  old  Wooddrop  tries  to  clamp  down  on  us.  I'll 
go  along  this  afternoon  and  see  the  head  furnace  man.  It 
will  take  money." 

Without  hesitation,  Hulings  put  a  considerable  part  of 
his  entire  small  capital  into  the  other's  hand.  At  sup- 
pertime  Conrad  Wishon  returned  with  the  first  load  of 
metal  for  the  Penn  Rolling  Mills  contract. 

Later  Hance  produced  a  wheezing  accordion  and,  rock- 
[142] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

ing   on   his    feet,    drew   out   long,    wailing    notes.     He 
sang: 

"  Brothers,  let  us  leave 

Bukra  Land  for  Hayti; 
There  we  be  receive* 
Grand  as  Lafayette." 

"  With  changes  of  men,"  Conrad  continued  to  Alexander 
Hulings,  "  the  forges  could  run  night  and  day,  like  cus 
tomary.  But  with  only  one  lot  we'll  have  to  sleep.  Some 
one  will  stay  up  to  tend  the  fires." 

In  the  morning  the  labor  of  making  the  wrought  blooms 
actually  commenced.  Conrad  Wishon  and  Hance  at 
one  hearth,  and  Haines  Zerbey  with  Surrie  at  the  other, 
stood  ceaselessly  stirring,  with  long  iron  rods,  the  fluxing 
metal  at  the  incandescent  cores  of  the  fires.  Alexander 
then  saw  that  the  troughs  of  water  were  to  cool  the  rapidly 
heating  rods.  Conrad  Wishon  was  relentless  in  his  in 
sistence  on  long  working  of  the  iron.  There  were,  al 
ready,  muttered  protests.  "  The  dam'  stuff  was  cooked 
an  hour  back !  "  But  he  drowned  the  objections  in  a  sur 
prising  torrent  of  German-American  cursing. 

Hulings  was  outside  the  shed  when  he  heard  the  first 
dull  fall  of  the  hammer;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
sound  had  come  from  a  sudden  pounding  of  his  expanded 
heart.  He,  Alexander  Hulings,  was  making  iron;  his 
determination,  his  capability  and  will  were  hammering 
out  of  the  stubborn  raw  material  of  earth  a  foothold  for 
himself  and  a  justification !  The  smoke,  pouring  blackly, 
streaked  with  crimson  sparks,  from  the  forge  shed,  sifted 
a  fine  soot  on  the  green-white  flowers  of  a  dogwood  tree. 
A  metallic  clamor  rose;  and  Emanuel,  the  youth,  stripped 

[143] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

to  the  waist  and  already  smeared  with  sweat  and  grime, 
came  out  for  a  gulping  breath  of  unsullied  air. 

The  characteristics  of  the  small  force  soon  became  ap 
parent.  Conrad  Wishon  labored  ceaselessly,  with  an  un 
impaired  power  at  fifty  apparent  even  to  Alexander's  in 
tense  self-absorption.  Of  the  others,  Hance,  the  negro, 
was  easily  the  superior;  his  strength  was  Herculean,  his 
willingness  inexhaustible.  Surrie  was  sullen.  Mathias 
Slough  constantly  grumbled  at  the  meager  provisions  for 
his  comfort  and  efforts;  yet  he  was  a  skillful  workman. 
When  Alexander  had  correctly  gauged  Zerbey's  daily  dram 
the  latter,  too,  was  useful;  but  the  others  were  negligible. 
They  made  the  motions  of  labor,  but  force  was  absent. 

Alexander  Hulings  watched  with  narrowed  eyes.  When 
he  was  present  the  work  in  the  shed  notably  improved ;  all 
the  men  except  Conrad  avoided  his  implacable  gaze.  He 
rarely  addressed  a  remark  to  them;  he  seemed  withdrawn 
from  the  operation  that  held  so  much  for  him.  Conrad 
Wishon  easily  established  his  dexterity  at  "  shingling  a 
loop." 

Working  off  a  part  of  a  melting  sow,  he  secured  it 
with  wide-jawed  shingling  tongs;  and,  steadying  the 
pulsating  mass  on  an  iron  plate,  he  sledged  it  into  a  bloom. 
For  ten  hours  daily  the  work  continued,  the  hearths 
burned,  the  trip  hammer  fell  and  fell.  The  interior  of 
the  shed  was  a  grimy  shadow  lighted  with  lurid  flares  and 
rose  and  gentian  flowers  of  iron.  Ruddy  reflections  slid 
over  glistening  shoulders  and  intent,  bitter  faces;  harsh 
directions,  voices,  sounded  like  the  grating  of  castings. 

The  oddly  assorted  team  was  dispatched  for  char 
coal,  and  then  sent  with  a  load  of  blooms  to  the  canal. 

[144] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

Hance  had  to  be  spared,  with  Surrie,  for  that;  the  forge 
was  short  of  labor,  and  Alexander  Hulings  joined  Conrad 
in  the  working  of  the  metal.  It  was,  he  found,  exhaust 
ing  toil.  He  was  light  and  unskilled,  and  the  mass  on 
the  hearth  slipped  continually  from  his  stirring;  or  else 
it  fastened,  with  a  seeming  spite,  on  his  rod,  and  he  was 
powerless  to  move  it.  Often  he  swung  from  his  feet, 
straining  in  supreme,  wrenching  effort.  His  body  burned 
with  fatigue,  his  eyes  were  scorched  by  the  heat  of  the 
fires;  he  lost  count  of  days  and  nights.  They  merged  im 
perceptibly  one  into  another;  he  must  have  dreamed  of 
his  racking  exertions,  for  apparently  they  never  ceased. 

Alexander  became  indistinguishable  from  the  others,  all 
cleanness  was  forgotten ;  he  ate  in  a  stupefaction  of  weari 
ness,  securing  with  his  fingers  whatever  was  put  before 
him.  He  was  engaged  in  a  struggle  the  end  of  which  was 
hidden  in  the  black  smoke  perpetually  hanging  over  him ; 
in  the  torment  of  the  present,  an  inhuman  suffering  to 
which  he  was  bound  by  a  tyrannical  power  outside  his 
control,  he  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  future. 

The  hammerman's  injured  arm  prevented  his  working 
for  two  days,  and  Alexander  Hulings  cursed  him  in  a 
stammering  rage,  before  which  the  other  was  shocked  and 
dumb.  He  drove  Old  Man  Boeshore  and  his  grandson 
with  consideration  for  neither  age  nor  youth;  the  elder 
complained  endlessly,  tears  even  slid  over  his  corrugated 
face;  the  youth  was  brutally  burned,  but  Hulings  never 
relaxed  his  demands. 

It  was  as  if  they  had  all  been  caught  in  a  whirlpool,  in 
which  they  fought  vainly  for  release  —  the  whirlpool  of 
Alexander  Hulings'  domination.  They  whispered  to- 

[145] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

gether,  he  heard  fragments  of  intended  revolt;  but  un 
der  his  cold  gaze,  his  thin,  tight  lips,  they  subsided  un 
easily.  It  was  patent  that  they  were  abjectly  afraid  of 
him.  .  .  .  The  blooms  moved  in  a  small  but  unbroken 
stream  over  the  road  to  the  canal. 

He  had  neglected  to  secure  other  horses  or  mules;  and, 
while  waiting  for  a  load  of  iron  on  the  rough  track 
broken  from  the  road  to  the  forge,  the  horse  slid  to  his 
knees,  fell  over,  dead  —  the  last  ounce  of  effort  wrung 
from  his  angular  frame.  The  mule  seemed  impervious 
to  fatigue;  with  his  ears  perpetually  laid  back  and  a 
raised  lip,  his  spirit,  his  wickedness,  persisted  in  the  face 
of  appalling  toil.  The  animal's  name,  Hulings  knew,  was 
Alexander;  he  overheard  Hance  explaining  this  to  Old 
Man  Boeshore: 

"That  mule's  bound  to  be  Alexander;  ain't  nobody 
but  an  Alexander  work  like  that  mule!  He's  bad  too; 
he'd  lay  you  cold  and  go  right  on  about  his  business." 

Old  Man  Boeshore  muttered  something  excessively  bit 
ter  about  the  name  Alexander. 

"  If  you  sh'd  ask  me,"  he  stated,  "  I'd  tell  you  that  he 
ain't  human.  He's  got  a  red  light  in  his  eye,  like " 

Hulings  gathered  that  this  was  not  still  directed  at  the 
mule. 

More  than  half  of  the  order  for  the  Penn  Rolling  Mills 
had  been  executed  and  lay  piled  by  the  canal.  He  cal 
culated  the  probable  time  still  required,  the  amount  he 
would  unavoidably  lose  through  the  delay  of  faulty  equip 
ment  and  insufficient  labor.  If  James  Claypole  came 
back  now,  he  thought,  and  attempted  interference,  he  would 
commit  murder.  It  was  evening,  and  he  was  seated  list- 

[146] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

lessly,  with  his  chair  tipped  back  against  the  dwelling  he 
shared  with  Conrad  Wishon.  The  latter,  close  by,  was 
bowed  forward,  his  head,  with  a  silvery  gleam  of  faded 
hair,  sunk  on  his  breast.  A  catbird  was  whistling  an 
elaborate  and  poignant  song,  and  the  invisible  stream 
passed  with  a  faint,  choked  whisper. 

"  We're  going  to  have  trouble  with  that  girl  of  Hance's," 
Wishon  pronounced  suddenly;  "  she  has  taken  to  meet 
ing  Surrie  in  the  woods.  If  Hance  comes  on  them  there 
will  be  wet  knives!  " 

Such  mishaps,  Alexander  Hulings  knew,  offered  real 
menace  to  his  success.  The  crippling  or  loss  of  Hance 
might  easily  prove  fatal  to  his  hopes;  the  negro,  im 
mensely  powerful,  equable  and  willing,  was  of  paramount 
importance. 

"I'll  stop  that!"  he  declared.  But  the  trouble  de 
veloped  before  he  had  time  to  intervene. 

He  came  on  the  two  negroes  the  following  morning, 
facing  each  other,  with,  as  Conrad  had  predicted,  drawn 
knives.  Hance  stood  still;  but  Surrie,  with  bent  knees 
and  the  point  of  his  steel  almost  brushing  the  grass, 
moved  about  the  larger  man.  Hulings  at  once  threw  him 
self  between  them. 

"  What  damned  nonsense's  this  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Get 
back  to  the  team,  Hance,  and  you,  Surrie,  drop  your 
knife!  " 

The  former  was  on  the  point  of  obeying,  when  Surrie 
ran  in  with  a  sweeping  hand.  Alexander  Hulings  jumped 
forward  in  a  cold  fury  and  felt  a  sudden  numbing  slice 
across  his  cheek.  He  had  a  dim  consciousness  of  blood 
smearing  his  shoulder;  but  all  his  energy  was  directed 
[147] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

on  the  stooped  figure  falling  away  from  his  glittering 
rage. 

"  Get  out!  "  he  directed  in  a  thin,  evil  voice.  "  If  you 
are  round  here  in  ten  minutes  I'll  blow  a  hole  through 
your  skull!  " 

Surrie  was  immediately  absorbed  by  the  underbrush. 

Hulings  had  a  long  diagonal  cut  from  his  brow  across 
and  under  his  ear.  It  bled  profusely,  and  as  his  temper 
receded  faintness  dimmed  his  vision.  Conrad  Wishon 
blotted  the  wound  with  cobwebs;  a  cloth,  soon  stained,  was 
bound  about  Alexander's  head,  and  after  dinner  he  was 
again  in  the  forge,  whipping  the  flagging  efforts  of  his 
men  with  a  voice  like  a  thin  leather  thong.  If  the  labor 
was  delayed  he  recognized  that  the  contract  would  not  be 
filled.  The  workmen  were  wearing  out,  like  the  horse. 
He  moved  young  Emanuel  to  the  hauling  with  Hance, 
the  wagon  now  drawn  by  three  mules.  The  hammer 
man's  injured  arm  had  grown  inflamed  and  he  was  prac 
tically  one-handed  in  his  management  of  the  trip  ham 
mer. 

While  carrying  a  lump  of  iron  to  the  anvil  the  stagger 
ing,  ill-assorted  group  with  the  tongs  dropped  their  bur 
den,  and  stood  gazing  stupidly  at  the  fallen,  glowing 
mass.  They  were  hardly  revived  by  Hulings'  lashing 
scorn.  He  had  increased  Haines  Zerbey's  daily  dram,  but 
the  drunkard  was  now  practically  useless.  Jeremiah  Stell 
contracted  an  intermittent  fever;  and,  though  he  still  toiled 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  coveted  wage,  he  was  of  doubtful 
value. 

Alexander  Hulings'  body  had  become  as  hard  as  Con 
rad's  knotted  forearm.  He  ate  huge  amounts  of  half- 

[148] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

cooked  pork,  washed  hastily  down  by  tin  cups  of  black 
coffee,  and  fell  into  instant  slumber  when  the  slightest 
opportunity  offered.  His  face  was  matted  by  an  un 
kempt  beard;  his  hands,  the  pale  hands  of  an  Eastlake 
lawyer,  were  black,  like  Hance's,  with  palms  of  leather. 
He  surveyed  himself  with  curious  amusement  in  a  broken 
fragment  of  looking-glass  nailed  to  the  wall;  the  old 
Hulings,  pursued  by  inchoate  dread,  had  vanished.  .  . 
In  his  place  was  Alexander  Hulings,  a  practical  iron  man! 
He  repeated  the  descriptive  phrase  aloud,  with  an  accent 
of  arrogant  pride.  Later,  with  an  envelope  from  the  Penn 
Rolling  Mills,  he  said  it  again,  with  even  more  confi 
dence;  he  held  the  pay  for  the  blooms  which  he  had  — 
it  seemed  in  another  existence  —  promised  to  deliver. 

He  stood  leaning  on  a  tree  before  the  forge ;  within  Con 
rad  Wishon  and  Hance  were  piling  the  metal  hooks  with 
sharp,  ringing  echoes.  All  the  others  had  vanished  magi 
cally,  at  once,  as  if  from  an  exhausted  spell.  Old  Man 
Boeshore  had  departed  with  a  piping  implication,  sup 
ported  by  Emanuel,  his  grandson. 

Alexander  Hulings  was  reviewing  his  material  situa 
tion.  It  was  three  hundred  and  thirty  dollars  better  than 
it  had  been  on  his  arrival  at  Tubal  Cain.  In  addition 
to  that  he  had  a  new  store  of  confidence,  of  indomitable 
pride,  vanity,  a  more  actual  support.  He  gazed  with 
interest  toward  the  near  future,  and  with  no  little  doubt. 
It  was  patent  that  he  could  not  proceed  as  he  had  be 
gun;  such  combinations  could  not  be  forced  a  second 
time.  He  intended  to  remain  at  James  Claypole's  forge, 
conducting  it  as  though  it  were  his  own  —  for  the  present, 
anyhow,  but  he  should  have  to  get  an  efficient  working 
[149] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

body;  and  many  additions  were  necessary  —  among  them 
a  blacksmith  shop.  He  had,  with  Conrad  Wishon,  the 
conviction  that  Claypole  would  not  return. 

More  capital  would  be  necessary.  He  was  revolving 
this  undeniable  fact  when,  through  the  lush  June  foliage, 
he  saw  an  open  carriage  turn  from  the  road  and  descend 
to  the  forge  clearing.  It  held  an  erect,  trimly  whiskered 
form  and  a  negro  driver.  The  former  was  John  Wood- 
drop.  He  gazed  with  surprise,  that  increased  to  a  recogni 
tion,  a  memory,  of  Alexander  Hulings. 

"  Jim  Claypole  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Not  here,"  Hulings  replied,  even  more  laconic. 

"Nonsense!  I'm  told  he's  been  running  Tubal  Cain 
again.  Say  to  him  —  and  I've  no  time  to  dawdle  —  that 
John  Wooddrop's  here." 

"Well,  Claypole's  not,"  the  other  repeated.  "He's 
away.  I'm  running  this  forge  —  Alexander  Hulings." 

Wooddrop's  mouth  drew  into  a  straight  hard  line  from 
precise  whisker  to  wtiisker.  "  I  have  been  absent,"  he 
said  finally.  It  was  palpably  an  explanation,  almost  an 
excuse.  Conrad  Wishon  appeared  from  within  the  forge 
shed.  "  Ah,  Conrad!  "  John  Wooddrop  ejaculated  pleas 
antly.  "  Glad  to  find  you  at  the  hearth  again.  Come 
and  see  me  in  the  morning." 

"  I  think  I'll  stay  here,"  the  forgeman  replied,  "  now 
Tubal  Cain's  working." 

"  Then,  in  a  week  or  so,"  the  Ironmaster  answered  im- 
perturbably. 

All  Alexander  Hulings'  immaterial  dislike  of  Wood- 
drop  solidified  into  a  concrete,  vindictive  enmity.  He 
saw  the  beginning  of  a  long,  bitter,  stirring  struggle. 

[ISO] 


TUBAL    CAIN 


IV 

"That's  about  it!"  Conrad  Wishon  affirmed.  They 
were  seated  by  the  doorway  of  the  dwelling  at  Tubal  Cain. 
It  was  night,  and  hot;  and  the  heavy  air  was  constantly 
fretted  by  distant,  vague  thunder.  Alexander  Hulings 
listened  with  pinched  lips. 

"  I  saw  Derek,  the  founder  at  Blue  Lump,  and  ordered 
the  metal;  then  he  told  me  that  Wooddrop  had  sent  word 
not  to  sell  a  pig  outside  his  own  forges.  That  comes  near 
closing  us  up.  I  misdoubt  that  we  could  get  men,  any 
how  —  not  without  we  went  to  Pittsburgh ;  and  that  would 
need  big  orders,  big  money.  The  old  man's  got  us  kind 
of  shut  in  here,  with  only  three  mules  and  one  wagon  — 
we  couldn't  make  out  to  haul  any  distance;  and  John 
Wooddrop  picks  up  all  the  loose  teams.  It  looks  bad, 
that's  what  it  does.  No  credit  too;  I  stopped  at  Harmony 
for  some  forge  hooks,  and  they  wouldn't  let  me  take  them 
away  until  you  had  paid.  A  word's  been  dropped  there 
likewise." 

Hulings  could  see,  without  obvious  statement,  that  he 
occupied  a  difficult  position;  it  was  impossible  seemingly, 
with  his  limited  funds  and  equipment,  to  go  forward  and 
—  no  backward  course  existed :  nothing  but  a  void,  ruin, 
the  way  across  which  had  been  destroyed.  He  turned  with 
an  involuntary  dread  from  the  fleeting  contemplation  of 
the  past,  mingled  with  monotony  and  suffering,  and  set  all 
his  cold,  passionate  mind  on  the  problem  of  his  future. 
He  would,  he  told  himself,  succeed  with  iron  here.  He 
would  succeed  in  spite  of  John  Wooddrop  —  no,  because 

[151] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

of  the  Ironmaster;  the  latter  increasingly  served  as  a  con 
crete  object  of  comparison,  an  incentive,  a  deeply  involved 
spectator. 

He  lost  himself  in  a  gratifying  vision,  when  Conrad's 
voice,  shattering  the  facile  heights  he  had  mounted,  again 
fastened  his  attention  on  the  exigencies  of  the  present. 

"  A  lot  of  money!  "  the  other  repeated.  "  I  guess  we'll 
have  to  shut  down;  but  I'd  almost  rather  drive  mules  on 
the  canal  than  go  to  John  Wooddrop." 

Hulings  declared :  "  You'll  do  neither,  and  Tubal 
Cain  won't  shut  down !  "  He  rose,  turned  into  the  house. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  Wishon  demanded  at  the  sudden  move 
ment. 

"I'm  going  after  money,"  Hulings  responded  from 
within  — "  enough.  A  packet  is  due  east  before  dawn." 

If  the  canal  boat  had  seemed  to  go  slowly  on  his  way  to 
Harmony,  it  appeared  scarcely  to  stir  on  his  return.  There 
was  no  immediate  train  connection  at  Columbus,  and  he 
footed  the  uneven  shaded  streetways  in  an  endless  pattern, 
unconscious  of  houses,  trees  or  passing  people,  lost  in  the 
rehearsal  of  what  he  had  to  say,  until  the  horn  of  an  im 
mediate  departure  summoned  him  to  a  seat  in  a  coach. 

The  candles  at  each  end  sent  a  shifting,  pale  illumina 
tion  over  the  cramped  interior,  voluminous  skirts  and  pro 
digiously  whiskered  countenances.  Each  delay  increased 
his  impatience  to  a  muttering  fury;  it  irked  him  that  he 
was  unable  to  declare  himself,  Alexander  Hulings,  to  the 
train  captain,  and  by  the  sheer  bulk  of  that  name  force  a 
more  rapid  progress. 

Finally  in  Eastlake,  Veneada  gazed  at  him  out  of  a 
silent  astonishment. 

[152] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

"  You  say  you're  Alex  Hulingsl  "  the  doctor  exclaimed. 
"  Some  of  you  seems  to  be;  but  the  rest  is  —  by  heaven, 
iron !  I'll  admit  now  I  was  low  about  you  when  you  left, 
in  April;  I  knew  you  had  gimp,  and  counted  on  it;  how 
ever  "  The  period  expired  in  a  wondering  exhalation. 

Veneada  pounded  on  his  friend's  chest,  dug  into  his  arm. 
"A  horse!  "he  declared. 

Alexander  Hulings  impatiently  withdrew  from  the 
other's  touch. 

"  Veneada,"  he  said,  "  once  you  asked  me  to  come  to  you 
if  I  wanted  money,  if  I  happened  on  a  good  thing.  I 
said  nothing  at  the  time,  because  I  couldn't  picture  an 
occasion  when  I'd  do  such  a  thing.  Well  —  it's  come.  I 
need  money,  and  I'm  asking  you  for  it.  And,  I  warn  you, 
it  will  be  a  big  sum.  If  you  can't  manage  it  I  must  go 
somewhere  else;  I'd  go  to  China,  if  necessary,  I'd  stop 
people,  strangers,  on  the  street. 

"A  big  sum,"  Hulings  reiterated  somberly;  "perhaps 
ten,  perhaps  twenty,  thousand.  Not  a  loan,"  he  added  im 
mediately,  "  but  an  investment  —  an  investment  in  me. 
You  must  come  out  to  Harmony.  I  can't  explain,  it 
wouldn't  sound  convincing  in  Eastlake.  In  the  valleys, 
at  Tubal  Cain,  the  thing  will  be  self-evident.  I  have 
made  a  beginning  with  practically  nothing;  and  I  can  go 
on.  But  it  will  require  capital,  miles  of  forest,  furnaces 
built,  Pittsburgh  swept  bare  of  good  men.  No  " —  he 
held  up  a  hardened,  arresting  palm  — "  don't  attempt  to 
discuss  it  now.  Come  out  to  Tubal  Cain  and  see;  learn 
about  John  Wooddrop  and  how  to  turn  iron  into  specie." 

At  the  end  of  the  week  there  were  three  chairs  canted 
against  the  stone  wall  of  the  little  house  by  the  stream  that 

[153] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

drove  Tubal  Cain  Forge.  Conrad  Wishon,  with  a  scarlet 
undershirt  open  on  a  broad,  hairy  chest,  listened 
with  wonderment  to  the  sharp  periods  of  Alexander  Hul- 
ings  and  Veneada;  he  heard  incredulously  mammoth  sums 
of  money  estimated,  projected,  dismissed  as  commonplace. 
Veneada  said: 

"  I've  always  believed  in  your  ability,  Alex;  all  that  I 
questioned  was  the  opportunity.  Now  that  has  gone;  the 
chance  is  here.  You've  got  those  steel-wire  fingers  of 
yours  about  something  rich,  and  you  will  never  let  go.  It 
sounds  absurd  to  go  up  against  this  Wooddrop,  a  despot 
and  a  firmly  established  power;  anyone  might  well  laugh 
at  me,  but  I  feel  a  little  sorry  for  the  older  man.  He 
doesn't  know  you. 

"  You  haven't  got  insides,  sympathies,  weaknesses,  like 
the  others  of  us;  the  thing  is  missing  in  you  that  ordinarily 
betrays  human  men  into  slips;  yes  —  compassion.  You 
are  not  pretty  to  think  about,  Alex;  but  I  suppose  power 
never  really  is.  You  know  I've  got  money  and  you  know, 
too,  that  you  can  have  it.  As  safe  with  you  as  in  a  bank 
vault  I" 

"We'll  go  back  to  Eastlake  tomorrow,"  Hulings  de 
cided,  "  lay  out  our  plans  and  draw  up  papers.  We'll 
buy  the  loose  timber  quietly  through  agents;  I'll  never 
appear  in  any  of  it.  After  that  we  can  let  out  the  con 
tracts  for  two  furnaces.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
them  now;  but  I  shall  in  a  week.  Wishon  had  better  live 
on  here,  pottering  about  the  forge,  until  he  can  be  sent  to 
Pittsburgh  after  workmen.  His  pay  will  start  tomorrow." 

"  What  about  Tubal  Cain,  and  that  fellow  —  what's  his 
name?  " 

[154] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

"  Claypole,  James.  I'll  keep  a  record  of  what  his 
forge  makes,  along  with  mine,  and  bank  it.  Common 
safety.  Then  I  must  get  over  to  New  York,  see  the 
market  there,  men.  I  have  had  letters  from  an  anchor 
foundry  in  Philadelphia.  There  are  nail  factories,  loco 
motive  shops,  stove  plate,  to  furnish.  A  hundred  in 
dustries.  I'll  have  them  here  in  time  —  rolling  mills  you 
will  hear  back  in  the  mountains.  People  on  the  packets 
will  see  the  smoke  of  my  furnaces  —  Alexander  Hulings' 
iron!  " 

"  You  might  furnish  me  with  a  pass,  so  that  I  could  oc 
casionally  walk  through  and  admire,"  Veneada  said  dryly. 

Hulings  never  heard  him. 

"  I'll  have  a  mansion,"  he  added  abstractedly,  "  better 
than  Wooddrop's,  with  more  rooms " 

"All  full,  I  suppose,  of  little  glorious  Hulings!  "  the 
doctor  interrupted. 

Alexander  regarded  him  unmoved.  His  thoughts  sud 
denly  returned  to  Hallie  Flower.  He  saw  her  pale, 
strained  face,  her  clasped  hands;  he  heard  the  thin  echo 
of  her  mingled  patience  and  dismay:  "  Then  I'll  never  be 
married!  "  There  was  no  answering  stir  of  regret,  re 
morse;  she  slipped  forever  out  of  his  consciousness,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  shadow  vanishing  before  a  flood  of  hard, 
white  light. 


Greatly  to  Alexander  Hulings'  relief,  Doctor  Veneada 
never  considered  the  possibility  of  a  partnership;  it  was 
as  far  from  one  man's  wish,  for  totally  different  reasons, 
as  from  the  other's. 

[1SS] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

"No,  no,  Alex,"  he  declared;  "I  couldn't  manage  it. 
Some  day,  when  you  were  out  of  the  office,  the  widow  or 
orphan  would  come  in  with  the  foreclosure,  and  I  would 
tear  up  the  papers.  Seriously  I  won't  do  —  I'm  fat  and 
easy  and  lazy.  My  money  would  be  safer  with  me  care 
fully  removed  from  the  scene." 

In  the  end  Alexander  protected  Veneada  with  mort 
gages  on  the  timber  and  land  he  secured  about  Harmony 
through  various  agents  and  under  different  names.  Some 
of  the  properties  he  bought  outright,  but  in  the  majority 
he  merely  purchased  options  on  the  timber.  His  holdings 
in  the  latter  finally  extended  in  a  broad,  irregular  belt 
about  the  extended  local  industries  of  John  Wooddrop.  It 
would  be  impossible  for  the  latter,  when,  in  perhaps  fif 
teen  years,  he  had  exhausted  his  present  forests,  to  cut  an 
acre  of  wood  within  practicable  hauling  distance.  This 
accomplished,  a  momentary  grim  satisfaction  was  visible 
on  Hulings'  somber  countenance. 

He  had,  however,  spent  all  the  money  furnished  by  Doc 
tor  Veneada,  without  setting  the  foundations  of  the  fur 
naces  and  forges  he  had  projected,  and  he  decided  not  to  go 
to  his  friend  for  more.  There  were  two  other  possible 
sources  of  supply:  allied  iron  industries  —  the  obvious 
recourse,  and  the  railroads.  The  latter  seemed  precarious; 
everywhere  people,  and  even  print,  were  ridiculing  the  final 
usefulness  of  steam  traffic;  it  was  judged  unfit  for  heavy 
and  continuous  hauling  —  a  toy  of  inventors  and  fantastic 
dreaming;  canals  were  the  obviously  solid  means  of  trans 
portation.  But  Alexander  Hulings  became  fanatical  over 
night  in  his  belief  in  the  coming  empire  of  steam. 

With  a  small  carpetbag,  holding  his  various  deeds  and 
[156] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

options,  and  mentally  formulating  a  vigorous  expression  of 
his  opinions  and  projections,  he  sought  the  doubtful  capital 
behind  the  Columbus  Transportation  Line.  When,  a 
month  later,  he  returned  to  Tubal  Cain,  it  was  in  the 
company  of  an  expert  industrial  engineer,  and  with  credit 
sufficient  for  the  completion  of  his  present  plans.  He  had 
been  gone  a  month,  but  he  appeared  older  by  several  years. 
Alexander  Hulings  had  forced  from  reluctant  sources, 
from  men  more  wily,  if  less  adamantine,  than  himself, 
what  he  desired;  but  in  return  he  had  been  obliged  to  grant 
almost  impossibly  favorable  contracts  and  preferences.  A 
tremendous  pressure  of  responsibility  had  gathered  about 
him;  but  under  it  he  was  still  erect,  coldly  confident,  and 
carried  himself  with  the  special  pugnacity  of  small,  vain 
men. 

On  a  day  in  early  June,  a  year  from  the  delivery  of  his 
first  contract  at  Tubal  Cain,  he  stood  in  a  fine  rain  at  the 
side  of  a  light  road  wagon,  drawn,  like  John  Wooddrop's, 
by  two  sweeping  young  horses,  held  by  a  negro,  and 
watched  the  final  courses  of  his  new  furnace.  The  fur 
nace  itself,  a  solid  structure  of  unmasoned  stone,  rose  above 
thirty  feet,  narrowed  at  the  top  to  almost  half  the  width  of 
its  base.  Directly  against  its  face  and  hearth  was  built  the 
single  high  interior  of  the  cast  house,  into  which  the  metal 
would  be  run  on  a  sand  pig  bed  and  harden  into  commer 
cial  iron. 

On  the  hill  rising  abruptly  at  the  back  was  the  long  wall 
of  the  coal  house,  with  an  entrance  and  runway  leading  to 
the  opening  at  the  top  of  the  furnace  stack.  Lower  down, 
the  curving,  artificial  channel  of  the  forebay  swept  to 
where  the  water  would  fall  on  a  ponderous  overshot  wheel 

[157] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

and  drive  the  great  tilted  bellows  that  blasted  the  furnace. 

The  latter,  Alexander  knew,  must  have  a  name.  Most 
furnaces  were  called  after  favorite  women;  but  there 
were  no  such  sentimental  objects  in  his  existence.  He  re 
called  the  name  of  the  canal  packet  that  had  first  drawn 
him  out  to  Harmony  —  the  Hit  or  Miss.  No  casual  title 
such  as  that  would  fit  an  enterprise  of  his.  He  thought  of 
Tubal  Cain,  and  then  of  Jim  Claypole.  He  owed  the 
latter  something;  and  yet  he  wouldn't  have  another  man's 
name.  .  .  .  Conrad  Wishon  had  surmised  that  the  owner 
of  Tubal  Cain  had  vanished  —  like  Elijah  —  on  a  Glory- 
wagon.  That  was  it  —  Glory  Furnace !  He  turned  and 
saw  John  Wooddrop  leaning  forward  out  of  his  equipage, 
keenly  studying  the  new  buildings. 

"  That's  a  good  job,"  the  Ironmaster  allowed;  "  but  it 
should  be  —  built  by  Henry  Bayard,  the  first  man  in  the 
country.  It  ought  to  do  very  well  for  five  or  six  years." 

"  Fifty,"  Hulings  corrected  him. 

John  Wooddrop's  eyes  were  smiling. 

"  It's  all  a  question  of  charcoal,"  he  explained,  as 
Wishon  had,  long  before.  "  To  be  frank,  I  expect  a  little 
difficulty  myself,  later.  It  is  surprising  how  generally 
properties  have  been  newly  bought  in  the  county.  I  know, 
because  lately  I,  too,  have  been  reaching  out.  Practically 
all  the  available  stuff  has  been  secured.  Thousands  of 
acres  above  you,  here,  have  been  taken  by  a  company, 
hotel  —  or  something  of  the  sort." 

"The  Venealic  Company,"  Hulings  said;  and  then,  in 
swelling  pride,  he  added:  "That's  me!"  Wooddrop's 
gaze  hardened.  Alexander  Hulings  thought  the  other's 
face  grew  paler.  His  importance,  his  sense  of  accom- 

[158] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

plishment,  of  vindication,  completely  overwhelmed  him. 
"  And  beyond,  it  is  me!  "  he  cried.  "  And  back  of  that, 
again!  "  He  made  a  wide,  sweeping  gesture  with  his 
arm.  "  Over  there;  the  Hezekiah  Mills  tract  —  that's  me 
too;  and  the  East  purchase,  and  on  and  round.  Fifty  — 
this  Glory  Furnace,  and  ten  others,  could  run  on  for  a 
century. 

"  YouVe  been  the  big  thing  here  —  even  in  the  state. 
You  are  known  on  canal  boats,  people  point  you  out;  yes, 
and  patronize  me.  You  did  that  yourself  —  you  and 
your  women.  But  it  is  over;  I'm  coming  now,  and  John 
Wooddrop's  going.  You  are  going  with  those  same  canal 
boats,  and  Alexander  Hulings  is  rising  with  the  rail 
roads." 

He  pounded  himself  on  the  chest,  and  then  suddenly 
stopped.  It  was  the  only  impassioned  speech,  even  in  the 
disastrous  pursuit  of  the  law,  that  he  had  ever  made; 
and  it  had  an  impotent,  foolish  ring  in  his  ear,  his  delib 
erate  brain.  He  instantly  disowned  all  that  part  of  him 
which  had  betrayed  his  ordinary  silent  caution  into  such 
windy  boasting.  Hulings  was  momentarily  abashed  be 
fore  the  steady  scrutiny  of  John  Wooddrop. 

"  When  I  first  saw  you,"  the  latter  pronounced,  "  I 
concluded  that  you  were  unbalanced.  Now  I  think  that 
you  are  a  maniac !  " 

He  spoke  curtly  to  his  driver,  and  was  sharply  whirled 
away  through  the  grey-green  veil  of  rain  and  foliage. 
Hulings  was  left  with  an  aggravated  discontent  and  bitter 
ness  toward  the  older  man,  who  seemed  to  have  the  ability 
always  to  place  him  in  an  unfavorable  light. 

[159] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 


VI 

Doctor  Veneada  returned  for  the  first  run  of  metal  from 
Glory  Furnace;  there  were  two  representatives  of  the  other 
capital  invested,  and,  with  Alexander  Hulings,  Conrad 
Wishon,  and  some  local  spectators,  they  stood  in  the  gloom 
of  the  cast  house  waiting  for  the  founder  to  tap  the  clay 
sealing  of  the  hearth.  Suddenly  there  was  a  rush  of 
crackling  white  light,  pouring  sparks,  and  the  boiling 
liquid  flooded  out,  rapidly  filling  the  molds  radiating  from 
the  channels  stamped  in  the  sand  bed.  The  incandescent 
iron  flushed  from  silver  to  darker,  warmer  tones. 

A  corresponding  warmth  ran  through  Alexander  Rul 
ings'  body;  Glory  Furnace  was  his;  it  had  been  con 
ceived  by  him  and  his  determination  had  brought  it  to 
an  actuality.  He  would  show  Wooddrop  a  new  type  of 
"  maniac."  This  was  the  second  successful  step  in  his 
move  against  the  Ironmaster,  in  the  latter's  own  field. 
Then  he  realized  that  he,  too,  might  now  be  called  Iron 
master.  He  directed  extensive  works  operated  under  his 
name;  he,  Hulings,  was  the  head!  Already  there  were 
more  than  a  hundred  men  to  do  what  he  directed,  go 
where  he  wished.  The  feeling  of  power,  of  consequence, 
quickened  through  him.  Alexander  held  himself,  if  pos 
sible,  more  rigidly  than  before;  he  followed  every  minute 
turn  of  the  casting,  tersely  admonished  a  laborer. 

He  was  dressed  with  the  utmost  care;  a  marked  nice- 
ness  of  apparel  now  distinguished  him.  His  whiskers 
were  closely  trimmed,  his  hair  brushed  high  under  a  glossy 
tile  hat;  he  wore  checked  trousers,  strapped  on  glazed  Wei- 

[160] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

lington  boots,  a  broadcloth  coat,  fitted  closely  to  his  waist, 
with  a  deep  rolling  collar;  severe  neckcloth,  and  a  num 
ber  of  seals  on  a  stiff  twill  waistcoat.  Veneada,  as  al 
ways,  was  carelessly  garbed  in  wrinkled  silk  and  a  broad 
planter's  hat.  It  seemed  to  Alexander  that  the  other 
looked  conspicuously  older  than  he  had  only  a  few  months 
back;  the  doctor's  face  was  pendulous,  the  pouches  be 
neath  his  eyes  livid. 

Alexander  Hulings  quickly  forgot  this  in  the  immediate 
pressure  of  manufacture.  The  younger  Wishon,  who  had 
followed  his  father  into  Alexander's  service,  now  came 
down  from  the  charcoal  stacks  in  a  great  sectional  wagon 
drawn  by  six  mules,  collared  in  bells  and  red  streamers. 
The  pigs  were  sledged  in  endless  procession  from  Glory, 
and  then  from  a  second  furnace,  to  the  forges  that  reached 
along  the  creek  in  each  direction  from  Tubal  Cain.  The 
latter  was  worked  as  vigorously  as  possible,  but  Alexander 
conducted  its  finances  in  a  separate,  private  column;  all 
the  profit  he  banked  to  the  credit  of  James  Claypole.  He 
did  this  not  from  a  sense  of  equity,  but  because  of  a  deeper, 
more  obscure  feeling,  almost  a  superstition,  that  such 
acknowledgment  of  the  absent  man's  unwitting  assistance 
was  a  safeguard  of  further  good  fortune. 

The  months  fled  with  amazing  rapidity;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  one  day  the  ground  was  shrouded  in  snow,  and 
on  the  next  dogwood  was  blooming.  No  man  in  all  his 
properties  worked  harder  or  during  longer  hours  than 
Alexander;  the  night  shift  at  a  forge  would  often  see  him 
standing  grimly  in  the  lurid  reflections  of  the  hearths; 
charcoal  burners,  eating  their  flitch  and  potatoes  on  an 
outlying  mountain,  not  infrequently  heard  the  beat  of  his 
[161] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

horse's  hoofs  on  the  soft  moss,  his  domineering  voice  bully 
ing  them  for  some  slight  oversight.  He  inspired  every 
where  a  dread  mingled  with  grudging  admiration;  it  was 
known  that  he  forced  every  possible  ounce  of  effort  from 
workman  and  beast. 

Nevertheless,  toward  the  end  of  the  third  summer  of  his 
success  he  contracted  a  lingering  fever,  and  he  was  posi 
tively  commanded  to  leave  his  labors  .for  a  rest  and  change. 
He  sat  on  the  porch  of  the  house  he  had  commenced 
building,  on  a  rise  overlooking  the  eddying  smoke  of  his 
industries,  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  and  considered  the  various 
places  that  offered  relaxation;  he  could  go  to  the  sea,  at 
Long  Branch,  or  to  Saratoga,  the  gayety  and  prodigality  of 
which  were  famous.  .  .  .  But  his  thought  returned  to  his 
collapse  four  years  before;  he  heard  Veneada  counseling 
him  to  take  the  water  of  the  Mineral  Springs.  He  had 
been  too  poor  then  for  the  Mineral;  had  he  gone  there, 
he  would  have  arrived  unnoticed.  By  heaven,  he  would 
go  there  now!  It  was,  he  knew,  less  fashionable  than 
the  other  places;  its  day  had  been  twenty,  thirty  years  be 
fore.  -  But  it  represented  once  more  his  progress,  his  suc 
cess;  and,  in  the  company  of  his  personal  servant,  his 
leather  boxes  strapped  at  the  back  of  his  lightest  road 
wagon,  he  set  out  the  following  morning. 

Almost  sixty  miles  of  indifferent  roads  lay  before  him; 
and,  though  he  covered,  in  his  weakened  condition,  far 
more  than  half  the  distance  by  evening  he  was  forced 
to  stay  overnight  at  a  roadside  tavern.  The  way  was  wild 
and  led  through  narrow,  dark  valleys,  under  the  shadow 
of  uninhabited  ridges,  and  through  swift  fords.  Occa 
sionally  he  passed  great,  slow  Conestoga  wagons,  entrained 

[162] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

for  the  West,  leather-hooded,  ancient  vehicles,  and  men  on 
horses. 

The  wagon  broke  suddenly  into  the  smooth,  green 
valley  that  held  the  Mineral  Springs.  Against  a  western 
mountain  were  grouped  hotels ;  a  bridge,  crossing  a  limpid 
stream;  pointed  kiosks  in  the  Chinese  taste;  and  red  gravel 
walks.  The  hotel  before  which  Alexander  stopped,  a 
prodigiously  long,  high  structure  painted  white,  had  a 
deep  porch  across  its  face  with  slender  columns  towering  up 
unbroken  to  the  roof  and  festooned  with  trumpet  flowers. 
A  bell  rang  loudly  for  dinner,  and  there  was  a  colorful 
flow  of  crinoline  over  the  porch,  a  perfumed,  flowery  stir, 
through  which  he  impatiently  made  his  way,  followed  by 
negro  boys  with  his  luggage. 

Within,  the  office  was  high  and  bare,  with  a  sweeping 
staircase,  and  wide  doors  opened  on  a  lofty  thronged 
dining  room.  Above,  he  was  led  through  interminable 
narrow  corridors,  past  multitudinous  closed  doors,  to  a 
closetlike  room  completely  filled  by  a  narrow  bed,  a  chair 
and  a  corner  washstand;  this,  with  some  pegs  in  the  cal 
cined  wall  and  a  bell  rope,  completed  the  provisions  for 
his  comfort.  His  toilet  was  hurried,  for  he  had  been 
warned  that  extreme  promptness  at  meals  was  more  than 
desirable;  and,  again  below,  he  was  led  by  a  pompous 
negro  between  long,  crowded  tables  to  a  place  at  the  farther 
end.  The  din  of  conversation  and  clatter  of  dishes  were 
deafening.  In  the  ceiling  great  connected  fans  were 
languidly  pulled  by  black  boys,  making  a  doubtful  circu 
lation. 

His  dinner  was  cold  and  absurdly  inadequate,  but  the 
table  claret  was  palatable.  And,  after  the  isolation  of 

[163] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

Tubal  Cain,  the  droves  of  festive  people  absorbed  him. 
Later,  at  the  bar,  he  came  across  an  acquaintance,  a  rail 
road  director,  who  pointed  out  to  Alexander  what  notables 
were  present.  There  was  an  Englishman,  a  lord;  there 
was  Bartram  Ainscough,  a  famous  gambler;  there  — 
Alexander's  arm  was  grasped  by  his  companion. 

"See  that  man  —  no,  farther  —  dark,  in  a  linen  suit? 
Well,  that's  Partridge  Sinnox,  of  New  Orleans."  He  grew 
slightly  impatient  at  Hulings'  look  of  inquiry.  "  Never 
heard  of  him!  Best-known  pistol  shot  in  the  States.  A 
man  of  the  highest  honor.  Will  go  out  on  the  slightest 
provocation,"  his  voice  lowered.  "  He's  said  to  have 
killed  twelve  —  no  less.  His  companion  there  —  from 
Louisiana  too  —  never  leaves  him.  Prodigiously  rich  — 
canefields." 

Alexander  Hulings  looked  with  small  interest  at  the 
dueller  and  his  associate.  The  former  had  a  lean,  tanned 
face,  small  black  eyes  that  held  each  a  single  point  of 
light,  and  long,  precise  hands.  Here,  Alexander  thought, 
was  another  form  of  publicity,  different  from  his  own. 
As  always,  his  lips  tightened  in  a  faint  contempt  at  pre 
tensions  other  than  his,  or  that  threatened  his  preeminence. 
Sinnox  inspired  none  of  the  dread  or  curiosity  evident  in 
his  companion ;  and  he  turned  from  him  to  the  inspection  of 
a  Pennsylvania  coal  magnate. 

The  colonnade  of  the  hotel  faced  another  cultivated 
ridge,  on  which  terraced  walks  mounted  to  a  pavilion  at 
the  crest;  and  there,  through  the  late  afternoon,  he  rested 
and  gazed  down  at  the  Springs  or  over  to  the  village  be 
yond.  Alexander  was  wearier  than  he  had  supposed ;  the 
iron  seemed  suddenly  insupportably  burdensome,  a  long- 

[164] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

ing  for  lighter,  gayer  contacts  possessed  him.     He  wanted 
to  enter  the  relaxations  of  the  Springs. 

Dancing,  he  knew,  was  customary  after  supper;  and  he 
lingered  over  a  careful  toilet  —  bright  blue  coat,  tight 
black  trousers,  and  flat,  glistening  slippers,  with  a  soft 
cambric  ruffle.  Alexander  Hulings  surveyed  his  counte 
nance  in  a  scrap  of  mirror,  and  saw,  with  mingled  surprise 
and  discontent,  that  he  —  like  Veneada  —  bore  unmistak 
able  signs  of  age,  marks  of  strife  and  suffering;  his  whis 
kers  had  a  plain  silvery  sheen.  Life,  receding  unnoticed, 
had  set  him  at  the  verge  of  middle  age.  But  at  least,  he 
thought,  his  was  not  an  impotent  medial  period;  if,  with 
out  material  success,  he  had  unexpectedly  seen  the  slightly 
drawn  countenance  meeting  him  in  the  mirror,  he  would 
have  killed  himself.  He  realized  that  coldly.  He  could 
never  have  survived  an  established  nonentity.  As  it  was, 
descending  the  stairs  to  supper,  immaculate  and  disdain 
ful,  he  was  upheld  by  the  memory  of  his  accomplishments, 
his  widening  importance,  weight.  He  actually  heard  a 
whispered  comment:  "  Hulings,  iron." 


VII 

After  supper  the  furnishings  of  the  dining  room  were 
swept  aside  by  a  troop  of  waiters,  while  a  number  of  the 
latter,  with  riddles  and  cornets,  were  grouped  on  a  table, 
over  which  a  green  cloth  had  been  spread.  With  the  in 
evitable  scraping  of  strings  and  preliminary  unattended 
dance,  a  quadrille  was  formed.  Alexander,  lounging  with 
other  exactly  garbed  males  in  the  doorway,  watched  with 

[165] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

secret  envy  the  participants  in  the  figures  gliding  from 
one  to  another.  As  if  from  another  life  he  recalled  their 
names;  they  were  dancing  Le  Pantalon  now;  La  Poulee 
would  follow;  then  the  Pastorale  and  L'Ete. 

Above  the  spreading  gauze,  the  tulle  and  glace  silks  of 
the  women,  immense  candelabra  of  glass  pendants  and 
candles  shone  and  glittered;  the  rustle  of  crinoline,  of  light, 
passing  feet,  sounded  below  the  violins  and  blown  cornets, 
the  rich  husky  voices  calling  the  changes  of  the  quadrille. 

He  was  troubled  by  an  obscure  desire  to  be  a  center  of 
interest,  of  importance,  for  the  graceful  feminine  world 
about  him.  Sinnox,  the  man  from  New  Orleans,  was 
bowing  profoundly  to  his  partner;  a  figure  broke  up  into 
a  general  boisterous  gallopading  —  girls,  with  flushed 
cheeks,  swinging  curls,  spun  from  masculine  shoulder  to 
shoulder.  The  dance  ended,  and  the  floating,  perfumed 
skirts  passed  him  in  a  soft  flood  toward  the  porch. 

Without,  the  colonnade  towered  against  a  sky  bright 
with  stars;  the  night  was  warm  and  still.  Alexander 
Hulings  was  lonely;  he  attempted  to  detain  the  acquaint 
ance  met  in  the  bar,  but  the  other,  bearing  a  great  bouquet 
of  rosebuds  in  a  lace-paper  cone,  hurried  importantly  away. 
A  subdued  barytone  was  singing:  "  Our  Way  Across  the 
Mountain,  Ho!  "  The  strains  of  a  waltz,  the  Carlotta- 
Grisi,  drifted  out,  and  a  number  of  couples  answered  its 
invitation. 

A  group  at  the  iron  railing  across  the  foot  of  the  colon 
nade  attracted  his  attention  by  its  excessive  gayety.  The 
center,  he  saw,  was  a  young  woman,  with  smooth  bandeaux 
and  loops  of  black  hair,  and  a  goya  lily  caught  below  her 
ear.  She  was  not  handsome,  but  her  features  were  ani- 

[166] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

mated,  and  her  shoulders  as  finely  white  and  sloping  as 
an  alabaster  vase. 

It  was  not  this  that  held  his  attention,  but  a  sense  of 
familiarity,  a  feeling  that  he  had  seen  her  before.  He 
walked  past  the  group,  without  plan,  and,  meeting  her 
gaze,  bowed  awkwardly  in  response  to  a  hesitating  but 
unmistakable  smile  of  recognition.  Alexander  stopped, 
and  she  imperiously  waved  him  to  join  the  number  about 
her.  He  was  in  a  cold  dread  of  the  necessity  of  admit 
ting,  before  so  many,  that  he  could  not  recall  her  name; 
but  obviously  all  that  she  desired  was  to  swell  the  circle 
of  her  admirers,  for,  beyond  a  second  nod,  she  ignored 
him. 

The  Southerner  was  at  her  shoulder,  maintaining  a 
steady  flow  of  repartee,  and  Alexander  envied  him  his 
assured  presence,  his  dark,  distinguished  appearance. 
The  man  who  had  been  indicated  as  Sinnox'  companion 
stood  by  Hulings,  and  the  latter  conceived  a  violent  preju 
dice  for  the  other's  meager  yellow  face  and  spiderlike 
hand,  employed  with  a  cheroot. 

Alexander  hoped  that  somebody  would  repeat  the  name 
of  the  girl  who  had  spoken  to  him.  A  woman  did,  but 
only  in  the  contracted,  familiar  form  of  Gisela.  .  . 
Gisela  —  he  had  heard  that  too.  Suddenly  she  affected 
to  be  annoyed;  she  arched  her  fine  brows  and  glanced 
about,  her  gaze  falling  upon  Alexander  Hulings.  Before 
he  was  aware  of  her  movement  a  smooth  white  arm  was 
thrust  through  his;  he  saw  the  curve  of  a  powdered  cheek, 
an  elevated  chin. 

"Do  take  me  out  of  this!"  she  demanded.     "New 
Orleans  molasses  is  —  well,  too  thick." 
[167] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

Obeying  the  gentle  pressure  of  her  arm,  he  led  her 
down  the  steps  to  the  graveled  expanse  below.  She 
stopped  by  a  figure  of  the  Goddess  of  Health,  in  filigree 
on  mossy  rocks,  pouring  water  from  an  urn.  Her  gown 
was  glazed  green  muslin,  with  a  mist  of  white  tulle, 
shining  with  particles  of  silver.  The  goya  lily  exhaled  a 
poignant  scent. 

"  I  didn't  really  leave  because  of  Mr.  Sinnox,"  she  ad 
mitted  ;  "  a  pin  was  scratching,  and  I  was  devoured  with 
curiosity  to  know  who  you  were,  where  I  had  met " 

Suddenly,  in  a  flash  of  remembered  misery,  of  bitter 
resentment,  he  recognized  her  —  Gisela,  John  Wooddrop's 
daughter.  The  knowledge  pinched  at  his  heart  like  mali 
cious  fingers;  the  starry  night,  the  music  and  gala  attire, 
his  loneliness  had  betrayed  him  into  an  unusual  plasticity 
of  being.  He  delayed  for  a  long  breath,  and  then  said 
dryly:  "I'm  Alexander  Hulings." 

"  Not "  she  half  cried,  startled.     She  drew  away 

from  him  and  her  face  grew  cold.  In  the  silence  that  fol 
lowed  he  was  conscious  of  the  flower's  perfume  and  the 
insistent  drip  of  the  water  falling  from  the  urn.  "  But 
I  haven't  met  you  at  all,"  she  said;  "  I  don't  in  the  least 
know  you."  Her  attitude  was  insolent,  and  yet  she  un 
consciously  betrayed  a  faint  curiosity.  "  I  think  you 
lacked  delicacy  to  join  my  friends  —  to  bring  me  out 
here!  " 

"  I  didn't,"  he  reminded  her;  "  you  brought  me." 

Instantly  he  cursed  such  clumsy  stupidity.  Her  lower 
lip  protruded  disdainfully. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  dropping  a  curtsy,  "  but  I 
needn't  keep  you." 

[168] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

She  swept  away  across  the  gravel  and  up  the  stairs  to 
the  veranda.  It  was  evident  that  the  group  had  not  sepa 
rated;  for  almost  immediately  there  rose  a  concerted 
laughter,  a  palpable  mockery,  drifting  out  to  Alexander. 

His  face  was  hot,  his  hands  clenched  in  angry  resent 
ment.  More  than  anything  else,  he  shrunk  from  being  an 
object  of  amusement,  of  gibes.  It  was  necessary  to  his 
self-esteem  to  be  met  with  grave  appreciation. 

This  was  his  first  experience  of  the  keen  assaults  of 
social  weapons,  and  it  inflicted  on  him  an  extravagant  suf 
fering.  His  instinct  was  to  retire  farther  into  the  night, 
only  to  return  to  his  room  when  the  hotel  was  dark,  de 
serted.  But  a  second,  stronger  impulse  sent  him  deliber 
ately  after  Gisela  Wooddrop,  up  the  veranda  stairs,  and 
rigidly  past  the  group  gazing  at  him  with  curious  mirth. 

An  oil  flare  fixed  above  them  shone  down  on  the  lean, 
saturnine  countenance  of  Partridge  Sinnox.  The  latter, 
as  he  caught  Alexander  Hulings'  gaze,  smiled  slightly. 

That  expression  followed  Alexander  to  his  cramped 
room;  it  mocked  him  as  he  viciously  pulled  at  the  bell 
rope,  desiring  his  servant;  it  was  borne  up  to  him  on  the 
faint  strains  of  the  violins.  And  in  the  morning  it 
clouded  his  entire  outlook.  Sinnox'  smile  expressed  a 
contempt  that  Alexander  Hulings'  soul  could  not  endure. 
From  the  first  he  had  been  resentful  of  the  Southerner's 
cheap  prestige.  He  added  the  qualifying  word  as  he  de 
scended  to  breakfast. 

Sinnox,  as  a  dueller,  roused  Hulings'  impatience;  he 
had  more  than  once  faced  impromptu  death  —  iron  bars  in 
the  hands  of  infuriated  employees,  and  he  had  overborne 
them  with  a  cold  phrase.  This  theatrical  playing  with 

[169] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

pistols  —  cheap!  Later,  in  the  crowded  bar,  he  was 
pressed  elbow  to  elbow  with  Sinnox  and  his  companion; 
and  he  automatically  and  ruthlessly  cleared  sufficient  space 
for  his  comfort.  Sinnox'  associate  said,  in  remonstrance: 

"  Sir,  there  are  others  —  perhaps  more  considerable." 

"  Perhaps!  "  Alexander  Hulings  carelessly  agreed. 

Sinnox  gazed  down  on  him  with  narrowed  eyes. 

"  I  see  none  about  us,"  he  remarked,  "  who  would  have 
to  admit  the  qualification." 

Alexander's  bitterness  increased,  became  aggressive. 
He  met  Sinnox'  gaze  with  a  stiff,  dangerous  scorn: 

"  In  your  case,  at  least,  it  needn't  stand." 

"  Gentlemen,"  the  third  cried,  "  no  more,  I  beg  of  you." 
He  grasped  Alexander  Hulings'  arm.  "Withdraw!  "  he 
advised.  "  Mr.  Sinnox'  temper  is  fatal.  Beyond  a  cer 
tain  point  it  cannot  be  leashed.  It  has  caused  great  grief. 
Gentlemen,  I  beg " 

"  Do  you  mean "  Sinnox  demanded,  and  his  face 

was  covered  by  an  even,  dark  flush  to  the  sweep  of  his 
hair. 

"  Cheap !  "  Alexander  repeated  aloud,  sudden  and  un 
premeditated. 

The  other's  temper  rose  in  a  black  passion;  he  became 
so  enraged  that  his  words  were  mere  unintelligible  gasps. 
His  hand  shook  so  that  he  dropped  a  glass  of  rock-and- 
rye  splintering  on  the  floor.  "  At  once!  "  he  finally  articu 
lated.  "Scurvy " 

"  This  couldn't  be  helped,"  his  companion  proclaimed, 
agitated.  "  I  warned  the  other  gentleman.  Mr.  Sinnox 
is  not  himself  in  a  rage,  his  record  is  well  known.  He  was 

elbowed  aside  by " 

[170] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

"  Alexander  Hulings !  "  that  individual  pronounced. 

He  was  aware  of  the  gaze  of  the  crowding  men  about 
him;  already  he  was  conscious  of  an  admiration  roused 
by  the  mere  fact  of  his  facing  a  notorious  bully.  Cheap ! 
The  director  joined  him. 

"  By  heavens,  Hulings,  you're  in  dangerous  water.  I 
understand  you  have  no  family." 

"None!  "  Alexander  stated  curtly. 

Illogically  he  was  conscious  of  the  scent  of  a  goya  lily. 
Sinnox  was  propelled  from  the  bar,  and  his  friend  reap 
peared  and  conferred  with  the  director. 

"At  once!"  Hulings  heard  the  former  announce. 
"Mr.  Sinnox  .  .  .  unbearable!  " 

"  Have  you  a  case  of  pistols?  "  the  director  asked. 
"  Mr.  Sinnox  offers  his.  I  believe  there  is  a  quiet  open 
back  of  the  bathhouse.  But  my  earnest  advice  to  you  is 
to  withdraw;  you  will  be  very  little  blamed;  this  man  is 
notorious,  a  professional  fighter.  You  have  only  to 
say " 

Cheap!  Alexander  thought,  fretful  at  having  been  in 
volved  in  such  a  ridiculous  affair.  He  was  even  more 
deliberate  than  usual;  but,  though  he  was  certain  of  his 
entire  normality,  the  faces  about  him  resembled  small, 
bobbing  balloons. 

Alexander  finished  his  drink  —  surprised  to  find  him 
self  still  standing  by  the  bar  —  and  silently  followed  the 
director  through  the  great  hall  of  the  hotel  out  onto  the 
veranda,  and  across  the  grass  to  a  spot  hidden  from  the 
valley  by  the  long,  low  bulk  of  the  bathing  house. 

Sinnox  and  his  companion,  with  a  polished  mahogany 
box,  were  already  there;  while  a  small,  curious  group  con- 

[171] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

gregated  in  the  distance.  Sinnox'  friend  produced  long 
pistols  with  silken-brown  barrels  and  elegantly  carved 
ivory  stocks,  into  which  he  formally  rammed  powder  and 
balls.  Alexander  Hulings  was  composed;  but  his  fingers 
were  cold,  slightly  numb,  and  he  rubbed  them  together 
angrily.  Not  for  an  instant  did  he  think  that  he  might 
be  killed ;  other  curious,  faint  emotions  assailed  him  — 
long- forgotten  memories  of  distant  years;  Veneada's  kindly 
hand  on  his  shoulder;  the  mule  called  Alexander  because 
of  its  aptitude  for  hard  labor;  John  Wooddrop's  daughter. 

He  saw  that  the  pistols  had  been  loaded;  their  manipu 
lator  stood  with  them,  butts  extended,  in  his  grasp.  He 
began  a  preamble  of  customary  explanation,  which  he 
ended  by  demanding,  for  his  principal,  an  apology  from 
Alexander  Hulings.  The  latter,  making  no  reply,  was 
attracted  by  Sinnox'  expression  of  deepening  passion;  the 
man's  face,  he  thought,  positively  was  black.  Partridge 
Sinnox'  entire  body  was  twitching  with  rage.  .  .  .  Curi 
ous,  for  a  seasoned,  famous  dueller! 

Suddenly  Sinnox,  with  a  broken  exclamation,  swung  on 
his  heel,  grasped  one  of  the  pistols  in  his  second's  hands, 
and  discharged  it  point-blank  at  Alexander  Hulings. 

An  instant  confused  outcry  rose.  Alexander  heard  the 
term  "  Insane!  "  pronounced,  as  if  in  extenuation,  by  Sin 
nox'  friend.  The  latter  held  the  remaining  undischarged 
pistol  out  of  reach;  the  other  lay  on  the  ground  before 
Partridge  Sinnox.  Alexander's  face  was  as  grey  as  gran 
ite. 

"  That  was  the  way  he  did  it,"  he  unconsciously  pro 
nounced  aloud. 

He  wondered  slowly  at  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
[172] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

unhit.  Then,  with  his  hand  in  a  pocket,  he  walked 
stiffly  up  to  within  a  few  feet  of  Sinnox,  and  produced  a 
small,  ugly  derringer,  with  one  blunt  barrel  on  top  of  the 
other. 

At  the  stunning  report  that  followed,  the  vicious,  sting 
ing  cloud  of  smoke,  he  seemed  to  wake.  He  felt  himself 
propelled  away  from  the  vicinity  of  the  bathhouse;  low, 
excited  exclamations  beat  upon  his  ears:  "Absolutely 
justified!  "  "  Horrible  attempt  to  murder!  "  "  Get  his 
nigger  and  things.  Best  for  the  present."  He  impa 
tiently  shook  himself  free  from  his  small  following. 

"  Did  I  kill  him?  "  he  demanded. 

There  was  an  affirmative  silence. 

In  his  wagon,  driving  rapidly  toward  Tubal  Cain,  a 
sudden  sense  of  horror,  weakness,  overtook  him;  the  road 
side  rocked  beneath  his  vision. 

"  Mordecai,"  he  said  to  his  coachman,  "I  —  I  shot  a 
man,  derringered  him." 

The  negro  was  unmoved. 

"  Man  'at  fool  round  you,  he's  bound  to  be  killed !  " 
he  asserted.  "  Yes,  sir;  he  just  throwed  himself  right 
away!  " 

Alexander  Hulings  wondered  how  John  Wooddrop's 
daughter  would  be  affected.  At  least,  he  thought  grimly, 
once  more  self-possessed,  he  had  put  a  stop  to  her  laughter 
at  his  expense. 

VIII 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  he  devoted  himself  ener 
getically  to  the  finishing  of  the  mansion  in  course  of 
erection  above  Tubal  Cain.  It  was  an  uncompromis- 

[173] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

ing,  square  edifice  of  brick,  with  a  railed  belvedere  on 
the  roof,  and  a  front  lawn  enclosed  by  a  cast-iron  fence. 
On  each  side  of  the  path  dividing  the  sod  were  wooden 
Chinese  pagodas  like  those  he  had  seen  at  the  Mineral 
Springs;  and  masoned  rings  for  flower  beds,  and  ferneries, 
artificially  heaped  stones,  with  a  fine  spray  from  con 
cealed  pipes.  Rearing  its  solid  bulk  against  the  living 
greenery  of  the  forest,  it  was,  he  told  himself  pridefully,  a 
considerable  dwelling.  Within  were  high  walls  and  flow 
ery  ceilings,  Italian  marble  mantels  and  tall  mirrors, 
black  carved  and  gilded  furniture,  and  brilliant  hassocks 
on  thick-piled  carpet. 

The  greater  part  of  the  labor  was  performed  by  the 
many  skilled  workmen  now  employed  in  his  furnaces  and 
forges.  He  was  utterly  regardless  of  cost,  obligations,  of 
money  itself.  Alexander  had  always  been  impatient  at 
the  mere  material  fact  of  wealth,  of  the  possession  and  the 
accumulation  of  sheer  gold.  To  him  it  was  nothing  more 
than  a  lever  by  which  he  moved  men  and  things;  it  was 
a  ladder  that  carried  him  above  the  unnoticed  and  un- 
notable.  He  could  always  get  money,  at  need,  from  men 
or  iron ;  to  debts  he  never  gave  a  thought  —  when  they  fell 
due  they  were  discharged  or  carried  on. 

His  reason  for  finishing  his  dwelling  with  such  elabora 
tion  was  obscure.  Veneada  had  laughed  at  him,  speaking 
of  small  Hulings,  but  he  harbored  no  concrete  purpose 
of  marriage;  there  was  even  no  dominant  feminine  figure 
in  his  thoughts.  Perhaps  faintly  at  times  he  caught  the 
odor  of  a  goya  lily;  but  that  was  probably  due  to  the 
fact  that  lilies  were  already  blooming  in  the  circular  con 
servatory  of  highly  colored  glass  attached  to  his  veranda. 

[174] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

The  greater  part  of  the  house  was  darkened,  shrouded 
in  linen.  He  would  see,  when  walking  through  the  hall, 
mysterious  and  shadowy  vistas,  lengthened  endlessly  in 
the  long  mirrors,  of  dusky  carpet,  and  alabaster  and 
ormolu,  the  faint  glitter  of  the  prisms  hung  on  the  mantel 
lamps.  Clocks  would  strike  sonorously  in  the  depths  of 
halls,  with  the  ripple  of  cathedral  chimes.  He  had  a 
housekeeper,  a  stout  person  in  oiled  curls,  and  a  number 
of  excessively  humble  negro  servants.  Alexander  Hulings 
got  from  all  this  an  acute  pleasure.  It,  too,  was  a  mark 
of  his  success. 

He  had,  below,  on  the  public  road,  a  small  edifice  of 
one  room,  which  formed  his  office,  and  there  he  saw  the 
vast  number  of  men  always  consulting  with  him;  he 
never  took  them  above  to  his  house.  And  when  they  dined 
with  him  it  was  at  the  hotel,  newly  built  by  the  packet 
station  on  the  canal  —  functions  flooded  with  the  prodigal 
amounts  of  champagne  Hulings  thought  necessary  to  his 
importance. 

Most  of  his  days  were  spent  in  his  road  wagon,  in 
which  he  traveled  to  Pittsburgh,  West  Virginia,  Philadel 
phia,  where  he  had  properties  or  interests.  In  the  cities 
of  his  associates  he  also  avoided  their  homes,  and  met  them 
in  hotels;  discussed  the  terms  of  business  in  bars  or  pub 
lic  parlors.  With  women  of  position  he  was  at  once  in 
different  and  ill  at  ease,  constantly  certain  that  he  was 
not  appearing  to  good  advantage,  and  suspecting  their 
asides  and  enigmatic  smiles.  He  was  laboriously,  stiffly 
polite,  speaking  in  complimentary  flourishes  that  some 
times  ended  in  abrupt  constraint.  At  this,  afterward,  he 
would  chafe,  and  damn  the  superior  airs  of  women. 

[175] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

He  had  returned  from  such  an  expedition  to  Wheeling, 
and  was  sitting  in  his  office,  when  a  vehicle  pulled  up 
before  his  door.  Deliberate  feet  approached  and  John 
Wooddrop  entered.  The  latter,  Alexander  realized  en 
viously,  was  an  excessively  handsome  old  man;  he  had  a 
commanding  height  and  a  square,  highly  colored  coun 
tenance,  with  close  white  sideburns  and  vigorous  silver 
hair.  His  manner,  too,  was  assured  and  easy.  He 
greeted  Alexander  Hulings  with  a  keen,  open  smile. 

"  Everything  is  splendid  here !  "  he  proclaimed.  "  I 
looked  in  that  chafery  down  stream,  and  the  metal  was 
worked  like  satin.  Fine  weather  for  the  furnaces  —  rain's 
ugly;  a  furnace  is  like  a  young  girl." 

Hulings  wondered  —  contained  and  suspicious  —  what 
the  other  wanted.  Wooddrop,  though  they  passed  each 
other  frequently  on  the  road,  had  not  saluted  him  since 
the  completion  of  Glory  Furnace.  He  thought  for  a 
moment  that  already  the  older  man  was  feeling  the  pinch 
of  fuel  scarcity  and  that  he  had  come  to  beg  for  timber. 
In  such  a  case  Alexander  Hulings  decided  coldly  that  he 
would  not  sell  Wooddrop  an  ell  of  forest.  In  addition 
to  the  fact  that  the  complete  success  of  one  or  the  other 
depended  ultimately  on  his  rival's  failure,  he  maintained 
a  personal  dislike  of  John  Wooddrop;  he  had  never  for 
gotten  the  humiliation  forced  on  him  long  before,  in  the 
dining  room  of  the  packet,  the  Hit  or  Miss;  he  could  not 
forgive  Wooddrop's  preeminence  in  the  iron  field.  The 
latter  was  a  legend  of  the  manufacture  of  iron. 

However,  any  idea  of  the  other's  begging  privilege  was 
immediately  banished  by  John  Wooddrop's  equable  bear 
ing.  He  said: 

[176] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Hulings,  about  a  rather  deli 
cate  matter.  In  a  way  it  is  connected  with  my  daughter, 
Gisela.  You  saw  her,  I  believe,  at  the  Springs." 

Alexander  Hulings  somberly  inclined  his  head. 

"  Of  course,"  Wooddrop  continued,  "  I  heard  about  the 
difficulty  you  had  with  that  Louisiana  bravo.  I  under 
stand  you  acted  like  a  man  of  spirit  and  were  completely 
exonerated;  in  fact,  I  had  some  small  part  in  quashing 
legal  complications.  This  was  done  not  on  your  account, 
but  because  of  Gisela,  who  confided  to  me  that  she  held 
herself  in  blame.  Mr.  Hulings,"  he  said  gravely,  "  my 
feeling  for  my  daughter  is  not  the  usual  affection  of 

parent  for  child.  My  wife  is  dead.  Gisela But  I 

won't  open  a  personal  subject  with  you.  I  spoke  as  I 
did  merely,  in  a  way,  to  prepare  you  for  what  follows. 
My  daughter  felt  that  she  did  you  a  painful  wrong;  and 
I  have  come,  in  consequence,  to  offer  you  my  good  will.  I 
propose  that  we  end  our  competition  and  proceed  together, 
for  the  good  of  both.  Consolidated,  we  should  inevitably 
control  the  iron  situation  in  our  state;  you  are  younger, 
more  vigorous  than  myself,  and  I  have  a  certain  prestige. 
Sir,  I  offer  you  the  hand  of  friendly  cooperation." 

Alexander  Hulings'  gaze  narrowed  as  he  studied  the 
man  before  him.  At  first,  he  had  searched  for  an  ulterior 
motive,  need,  in  Wooddrop's  proposal;  but  he  quickly 
saw  that  the  proposal  had  been  completely  stated.  Illogi- 
cally  he  thought  of  black  ringleted  hair  and  glazed  muslin; 
he  heard  the  echo  of  water  dripping  from  a  stone  urn. 
Lost  in  memories,  he  was  silent,  for  so  long  that  John 
Wooddrop  palpably  grew  impatient.  He  cleared  his 
throat  sharply;  but  Hulings  didn't  shift  a  muscle.  Alex- 

[177] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

ander  was  thinking  now  of  the  order  he  had  filled  the 
first  summer  at  Tubal  Cain,  of  his  brutal  labor  and  bitter, 
deferred  aspirations.  His  rise,  alone,  had  been  at  the 
price  of  ceaseless  struggle;  it  was  not  yet  consummated; 
but  it  would  be  —  it  must,  and  still  alone.  Nothing 
should  rob  him  of  the  credit  of  his  achievement;  no  person 
coupled  with  him  might  reduce  or  share  his  triumph. 
What  he  said  sounded  inexcusably  harsh  after  the  other's 
open  manner. 

"  Only,"  he  said  — "  only  if  the  amalgamated  indus 
tries  bear  my  name  —  the  Alexander  Hulings  Iron 
works." 

John  Wooddrop's  face  darkened  as  he  comprehended  the 
implied  insult  to  his  dignity  and  position.  He  rose,  so 
violently  thrusting  back  the  chair  in  which  he  had  been 
sitting,  that  it  fell  with  a  clatter. 

"You  brass  trumpet!"  he  ejaculated.  "You  intoler 
able  little  bag  of  vanity!  Will  you  never  see  yourself 
except  in  a  glass  of  flattery  or  intolerable  self-satisfaction? 
It  would  be  impossible  to  say  which  you  inspire  most, 
contempt  or  pity." 

Strangely  enough,  Hulings  didn't  resent  the  language 
applied  to  him.  He  gazed  at  Wooddrop  without  anger. 
The  other's  noise,  he  thought,  was  but  a  symptom  of  his 
coming  downfall.  He  was  slowly  but  surely  drawing  the 
rope  about  the  throat  of  Wooddrop's  industries. 

"  Absolutely  the  last  time,"  the  other  stuttered.  "  Now 
you  can  go  to  hell  on  your  own  high  horse!  Blinded  by 
your  own  fatuousness  —  don't  see  where  the  country  is 
running.  You  may  impose  on  others,  but  I  know  your 

[178] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

business,  sir;  and  it's  as  hollow  as  a  tin  plate  stove.     The 
times  will  soon  kick  it  in." 

John  Wooddrop  stamped  away  from  Hulings  in  a  rage. 

IX 

That  evening  Alexander  Hulings  wondered  what  Gisela 
had  told  her  father;  he  wondered  more  vaguely  what  she 
had  thought  of  him  —  what,  if  at  all,  she  still  thought. 
He  had  had  a  formal  room  illuminated  for  his  cigar  after 
dinner;  and  he  sat,  a  small,  precise  figure,  with  dust- 
colored  hair  and  a  somber,  intent  countenance,  clasping  a 
heavy  roll  of  expensive  tobacco,  in  a  crimson  plush  chair. 
The  silence,  the  emptiness  about  him  was  filled  with  rich 
color,  ponderous  maroon  draperies,  marble  slabs  and 
fretted  tulipwood. 

It  suddenly  struck  him  that,  by  himself,  he  was  slightly 
ridiculous  in  such  opulence.  His  house  needed  a  mistress, 
a  creature  of  elegance  to  preside  at  his  table,  to  exhibit 
in  her  silks  and  jewels  another  sign  of  his  importance. 
Again,  as  if  from  the  conservatory,  he  caught  a  faint  poign 
ant  perfume. 

Gisela  Wooddrop  was  a  person  of  distinction,  self-pos 
sessed  and  charming.  There  was  a  subtle  flavor  in  thus 
considering  her  father's  daughter  —  old  Wooddrop's  girl 
—  and  himself.  He  rose  and  walked  to  a  mirror,  criti 
cally  surveying  his  countenance  —  yes,  it  was  well  marked 
by  age,  yet  it  was  sharp  in  outline;  his  step  was  springy; 
he  felt  none  of  the  lassitude  of  increasing  years. 

He  was  in  his  prime.  Many  young  women  would  pre- 
[179] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

fer  him,  his  house  and  name,  to  the  windy  pretensions  of 
youthful  scapegoats.  A  diamond  necklace  was  a  convinc 
ing  form  of  courtship.  There  was  no  absolute  plan  in  his 
thoughts  that  night ;  but,  in  the  dry  romantic  absorption  of 
the  days  that  followed,  a  fantastic  purpose  formed  and 
increased  —  he  determined  to  marry  Gisela  Wooddrop. 

He  had  for  this,  he  assured  himself,  some  slight  en 
couragement;  it  was  patent  that  her  father  had  entirely 
misread  the  girl's  intent  in  suggesting  an  end  to  the  hostili 
ties  which  had  made  impossible  any  social  intercourse.  She 
was  interested  in  him;  the  duel  with  Sinnox  had  captured 
her  imagination.  Women  responded  surprisingly  to  such 
things.  Then  she  had  held  that  it  had  been  partly  her 
fault!  Now  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  understood  why  he 
had  built  so  elaborately  since  his  return  from  the  Mineral 
Springs ;  unconsciously  —  all  the  while  —  it  had  been  for 
his  wife  —  for  Gisela. 

There  were  great  practical  difficulties  in  the  realiza 
tion  of  his  desire,  even  in  his  opportunity  to  present  his 
question;  to  see  Gisela  Wooddrop  long  enough  and  suffi 
ciently  privately  to  explain  all  he  hoped.  He  was,  too, 
far  past  the  age  of  romantic  assignations,  episodes;  he 
could  no  more  decorate  a  moonlit  scene  beneath  a  window. 
Alexander  could  not  count  on  adventitious  assistance 
from  emotional  setting:  his  offer  could  carry  only  its 
grave  material  solidity.  Often  he  laughed  curtly  at  what 
momentarily  seemed  an  absurd  fantasy,  a  madness  ap 
proaching  senility;  then  his  pride  would  flood  back,  re 
assert  the  strength  of  his  determination,  the  desirability  of 
Alexander  Hulings. 

[180] 


TUBAL    CAIN 


X 

The  occasion  evaded  him;  the  simplicity  of  his  wish, 
of  the  bald  relationship  between  the  Wooddrops  and 
Tubal  Cain,  preventing  it  more  surely  than  a  multipli 
cation  of  barriers.  He  never  considered  the  possibility 
of  a  compromise  with  John  Wooddrop,  a  retreat  from 
his  position.  Alexander  thought  of  Gisela  as  a  pos 
sible  addition  to  his  dignity  and  standing  —  of  the  few 
women  he  had  seen  she  possessed  the  greatest  attrac 
tions —  and  he  gave  no  thought  of  a  sacrifice  to  gain 
her.  She  was  to  be  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  his  success  — 
a  wife  to  honor  his  mansion,  to  greet  a  selected  few  of  his 
friends,  and  wear  the  gold  and  jewels  purchased  by  the 
Hulings  iron. 

He  made  no  overt  attempt  to  see  her,  but  waited  for 
opportunity.  Meantime  he  had  commenced  to  think  of 
her  in  terms  of  passionless  intimacy.  Alexander  Hulings 
was  a  solitary  man  —  except  for  his  industrial  activity  his 
mind  was  empty,  and  Gisela  Wooddrop  quickly  usurped 
the  hours  after  dinner,  the  long  drives  through  massed 
and  unscarred  forests.  He  recalled  her  minutely  —  every 
expression  that  he  had  seen,  every  variation  of  dress. 
Wooddrop's  daughter  was  handsomely  provided  for;  but 
Alexander  Hulings'  wife  would  be  a  revelation  in  luxury. 
In  New  York  he  bought  a  pair  of  India  cashmere  shawls, 
paying  a  thousand  dollars  for  them,  and  placed  them  on 
a  chair,  ready 

The  weeks  multiplied;  and  he  got  such  pleasure  from 
the  mere  thought  of  Gisela  sweeping  through  his  rooms, 

[181] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

accompanying  him  to  Philadelphia,  shining  beside  him  at 
the  opera,  that  he  became  almost  reluctant  to  force  the 
issue  of  her  choice.  He  was  more  than  customarily  care 
ful  with  his  clothes;  his  silk  hats  were  immaculate;  his 
trousers  ranged  in  color  from  the  most  delicate  sulphur 
to  astounding  London  checks;  he  had  his  yellow  boots 
polished  with  champagne,  his  handkerchiefs  scented  with 
essence  of  nolette  and  almond.  For  all  this,  his  coun 
tenance  was  none  the  less  severe,  his  aptitude  for  labor 
untouched;  he  followed  every  detail  of  iron  manufacture, 
every  improved  process,  every  shift  in  the  market. 

The  valley  about  Tubal  Cain  now  resembled  a  small, 
widely  scattered  town;  the  dwellings  of  Hulings'  work 
men  extended  to  the  property  line  of  the  Blue  Lump  Fur 
nace;  roads  were  cut,  bridges  thrown  across  the  stream. 
The  flutter  of  wings,  the  pouring  birdsong  and  vale  of 
green,  that  Alexander  had  found  had  given  place  to  a  con 
tinuous,  shattering  uproar  day  and  night  —  the  charging 
of  furnaces;  the  dull  thunder  of  the  heavy  wagons  of 
blooms;  the  jangle  of  shingling  sledges  and  monotonous 
fall  of  trip  hammers  —  mingled  and  rose  in  a  stridulous 
volume  to  the  sky,  accompanied  by  chemical  vapors,  up- 
rushing  cinders  and  the  sooty  smoke  of  the  forges.  A 
company  store  had  been  built  and  stocked,  and  grimy 
troops  of  laborers  were  perpetually  gathered,  off  shift,  by 
its  face. 

Harmony  itself,  the  station  on  the  canal,  had  expanded; 
the  new  hotel,  an  edifice  of  brick  with  a  steep  slate  roof 
and  iron  grilling,  faced  a  rival  saloon  and  various  em- 
poria  of  merchandise.  An  additional  basin  had  been  cut 

[182] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

in  the  bank  for  the  loading  of  Alexander  Hillings'  iron 
onto  the  canal  boats. 

He  had  driven  to  the  canal  —  it  was  early  summer  —  to 
see  about  a  congestion  of  movement;  and,  hot,  he  stopped 
in  the  hotel  for  a  pint  of  wine  in  a  high  glass  with 
cracked  ice.  The  lower  floor  was  cut  in  half  by  a  hall 
and  stairs;  on  the  right  the  bar  opened  onto  the  narrow 
porch,  while  at  the  left  a  ladies'  entrance  gave  way  to 
the  inevitable  dark,  already  musty  parlor.  The  bar  was 
crowded,  and,  intolerant  of  the  least  curtailment  of  his 
dignity  or  comfort,  he  secured  his  glass  and  moved  across 
the  hall  to  the  stillness  of  the  parlor. 

A  woman  was  standing,  blurred  in  outline,  at  one  of 
the  narrow  windows.  She  turned  as  he  entered;  he  bowed, 
prepared  to  withdraw,  when  he  saw  that  it  was  Gisela 
Wooddrop.  She  wore  white  muslin,  sprigged  in  orange 
chenille,  with  green  ribbons,  and  carried  a  green  parasol. 
Alexander  stood  motionless  in  the  doorway,  his  cham 
pagne  in  one  hand  and  a  glossy  stovepipe  hat  in  the 
other.  He  was  aware  of  a  slight  inward  confusion,  but 
outwardly  he  was  unmoved,  exact.  Gisela,  too,  main 
tained  the  turn  of  her  flexible  body,  her  hands  on  the  top 
of  the  parasol.  Under  her  bonnet  her  face  was  pale,  her 
eyes  noticeably  bright.  Alexander  Hulings  said: 

"Good  afternoon!  " 

He  moved  into  the  room.  Gisela  said  nothing;  she 
was  like  a  graceful  painted  figure  on  a  shadowy  back 
ground.  A  complete  ease  possessed  Alexander. 

"  Miss  Wooddrop,"  he  continued,  in  the  vein  of  a  simple 
statement.  She  nodded  automatically.  "  This  is  a  happy 

[183] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

meeting  —  for  me.  I  can  now  express  my  gratitude  for 
your  concern  about  a  certain  unfortunate  occurrence  at  the 
Mineral  Springs.  At  the  same  time,  I  regret  that  you 
were  caused  the  slightest  uneasiness." 

She  shuddered  delicately. 

"  Nothing  more  need  be  said  about  that,"  she  told  him. 
"  I  explained  to  my  father;  but  I  was  sorry  afterward 
that  I  did  it,  and  —  and  put  him  to  fresh  humiliation." 

"  There,"  he  gravely  replied,  "  little  enough  can  be  dis 
cussed.  It  has  to  do  with  things  that  you  would  have 
limited  patience  with,  strictly  an  affair  of  business.  I 
was  referring  to  your  susceptibility  of  heart,  a  charming 
female  quality," 

He  bowed  stiffly.  Gisela  came  nearer  to  him,  a  sudden 
emotion  trembling  on  her  features. 

"  Why  don't  you  end  it?  "  she  cried,  low  and  distressed. 
"  It  has  gone  on  a  long  while  now  —  the  bitterness  be 
tween  you ;  I  am  certain  in  his  heart  father  is  weary  of  it, 

and  you  are  younger "  She  broke  off  before  the 

tightening  of  his  lips. 

"  Not  a  topic  to  be  developed  here,"  he  insisted. 

He  had  no  intention,  Alexander  Hulings  thought,  of 
being  bent  about  even  so  charming  a  finger.  And  it  was 
well  to  establish  at  once  the  manner  in  which  any  future 
they  might  share  should  be  conducted.  He  wanted  a  wife, 
not  an  intrigante  nor  Amazon.  Her  feeling,  color,  rapidly 
evaporated,  and  left  her  pallid,  confused,  before  his  calm 
demeanor.  She  turned  her  head  away,  her  face  lost  in  the 
bonnet,  but  slowly  her  gaze  returned  to  meet  his  keen  in 
quiry.  His  impulse  was  to  ask  her,  then,  at  once,  to 
marry  him;  but  he  restrained  that  headlong  course,  feel- 

[184] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

ing  that  it  would  startle  her  into  flight.  As  it  was,  she 
moved  slowly  toward  the  door. 

"I  am  to  meet  a  friend  on  the  Western  packet,"  she 
explained;  "I  thought  I  heard  the  horn." 

"  It  was  only  freight,"  he  replied.  "  I  should  be  sorry 
to  lose  this  short  opportunity  to  pay  you  my  respects; 
to  tell  you  that  you  have  been  a  lot  in  my  thoughts  lately. 
I  envy  the  men  who  see  you  casually,  whenever  they 
choose." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  palpable  surprise  gathering  in 
her  widely  opened  eyes.  "  But,"  she  said  breathlessly, 
"  everybody  knows  that  you  never  address  a  polite  syl 
lable  to  a  woman.  It  is  more  speculated  on  than  any  of 
your  other  traits." 

He  expanded  at  this  indication  of  a  widespread  dis 
cussion  of  his  qualities. 

"  I  have  had  no  time  for  merely  polite  speeches,"  he 
responded.  "  And  I  assure  you  that  I  am  not  only  com 
plimentary  now;  I  mean  that  I  am  not  saluting  you  with 
vapid  elegance.  I  am  awaiting  only  a  more  fitting  oc 
casion  to  say  further." 

She  circled  him  slowly,  with  a  minute  whispering  of 
crinoline,  her  gaze  never  leaving  his  face.  Her  muslin, 
below  her  white,  bare  throat,  circled  by  a  black  velvet 
band,  was  heaving.  The  parasol  fell  with  a  clatter.  He 
stooped  immediately;  but  she  was  before  him  and  snatched 
it  up,  with  crimson  cheeks. 

"  They  say  that  you  are  the  most  hateful  man  alive!  " 
she  half  breathed. 

"Who  are  'they'?"  he  demanded  contemptuously. 
"  Men  I  have  beaten  and  women  I  failed  to  see.  That 

[185] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

hatred  grows  with  success,  with  power;  it  is  never  wasted 
on  the  weak.  My  competitors  would  like  to  see  me  fall 
into  a  furnace  stack  —  the  men  I  have  climbed  over,  and 
my  debtors.  They  are  combining  every  month  to  push 
me  to  the  wall,  a  dozen  of  them  together,  yelping  like  a 
pack  of  dogs.  But  they  haven't  succeeded;  they  never 
will !  "  His  words  were  like  the  chips  from  an  iron 
bloom.  "  They  never  will,"  he  repeated  harshly,  "  and 
I  have  only  begun.  I  want  you  to  see  my  house 
sometime.  I  planned  a  great  part  of  it  with  you  in  mind. 
No  money  was  spared.  ...  I  should  be  happy  to  have 
you  like  it.  I  think  of  it  as  yours." 

All  the  time  he  was  speaking  she  was  stealing  by  im 
perceptible  degrees  toward  the  door;  but  at  his  last,  sur 
prising  sentence  she  stood  transfixed  with  mingled  wonder 
and  fear.  She  felt  behind  her  for  the  open  doorway  and 
rested  one  hand  against  the  woodwork.  A  ribald  clatter 
sounded  from  the  bar,  and  without  rose  the  faint,  clear 
note  of  an  approaching  packet.  Her  lips  formed  for 
speech,  but  only  a  slight  gasp  was  audible;  then  her 
spreading  skirts  billowed  through  the  opening  and  she 
was  gone. 

Alexander  Hulings  found  that  he  was  still  holding  his 
silk  hat;  he  placed  it  carefully  on  the  table  and  took  a 
deep  drink  from  the  iced  glass.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
greater  feeling  of  triumph  than  he  had  ever  known  be 
fore.  He  realized  that  he  had  hardly  needed  to  add  the 
spoken  word  to  the  impression  his  being  had  made  on 
Gisela  Wooddrop.  He  had  already  invaded  her  imagina 
tion;  the  legend  of  his  struggle  and  growth  had  taken 
possession  of  her.  There  remained  now  only  a  formal 

[186] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

declaration,  the  outcome  of  which  he  felt  almost  certain 
would  be  in  his  favor. 

Again  in  his  house,  he  inspected  the  silk  hangings  of 
the  particularly  feminine  chambers.  He  trod  the  thick 
carpets  with  a  keen  anticipation  of  her  exclamations  of 
pleasure,  her  surprise  at  convenient  trifle  after  trifle.  In 
the  stable  he  surveyed  a  blooded  mare  she  might  take  a 
fancy  to;  he  must  buy  a  light  carriage,  with  a  fringed 
canopy  —  yes,  and  put  a  driver  into  livery.  Women 
liked  such  things. 

At  dinner  he  speculated  on  the  feminine  palate;  he 
liked  lean  mountain  venison,  and  a  sherry  that  left  al 
most  a  sensation  of  dust  on  the  tongue;  but  women  pre 
ferred  sparkling  hock  and  pastry,  fruit  preserved  in  white 
brandy,  and  pagodas  of  barley  sugar. 

Through  the  open  windows  came  the  subdued  clatter 
of  his  forges;  the  hooded  candles  on  the  table  flickered 
slightly  in  a  warm  eddy,  while  corresponding  shadows 
stirred  on  the  heavy  napery,  the  Sheffield,  and  delicate 
creamy  Belleek  of  his  dinner  service  —  the  emblem  of 
his  certitude  and  pride. 

XI 

In  October  Alexander  Hulings  took  Gisela  Wooddrop 
to  the  home  that  had  been  so  largely  planned  for  her  en 
joyment.  They  had  been  married  in  a  private  parlor 
of  the  United  States  Hotel,  in  Philadelphia;  and  after 
a  small  supper  had  gone  to  the  Opera  House  to  see  "  Love 
in  a  Village,"  followed  by  a  musical  pasticcio.  Gisela's 
mother  had  died  the  winter  before,  and  she  was  attended 

[187] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

by  an  elderly  distant  cousin;  no  one  else  was  present  at 
the  wedding  ceremony  except  a  friend  of  Gisela's  —  a 
girl  who  wept  copiously  —  and  Doctor  Veneada.  The 
latter's  skin  hung  in  loose  folds,  like  a  sack  partially 
emptied  of  its  contents;  his  customary  spirit  had  evapo 
rated  too;  and  he  sat  through  the  wedding  supper  neither 
eating  nor  speaking,  save  for  the  forced  proposal  of  the 
bride's  health. 

Gisela  Wooddrop  and  Alexander  Hulings,  meeting  on 
a  number  of  carefully  planned,  apparently  accidental  oc 
casions,  had  decided  to  be  married  while  John  Wood- 
drop  was  confined  to  his  room  by  severe  gout.  In  this 
manner  they  avoided  the  unpleasant  certainty  of  his  re 
fusal  to  attend  his  daughter's,  and  only  child's,  wedding. 
Gisela  had  not  told  Alexander  Hulings  what  the  aging 
Ironmaster  had  said  when  necessarily  informed  of  her 
purpose.  No  message  had  come  to  Alexander  from  John 
Wooddrop;  since  the  ceremony  the  Hulings  had  had  no 
sign  of  the  other's  existence. 

Alexander  surveyed  his  wife  with  huge  satisfaction  as 
they  sat  for  the  first  time  at  supper  in  their  house.  She 
wore  white,  with  the  diamonds  he  had  given  her  about 
her  firm  young  throat,  black-enamel  bracelets  on  her 
wrists,  and  her  hair  in  a  gilt  net.  She  sighed  with  deep 
pleasure. 

"  It's  wonderful !  "  she  proclaimed,  and  then  corrobo 
rated  all  he  had  surmised  about  the  growth  of  her  interest 
in  him;  it  had  reached  forward  and  back  from  the  killing 
of  Partridge  Sinnox.  "  That  was  the  first  time,"  she  told 
him,  "  that  I  realized  you  were  so  —  so  big.  You  looked 
so  miserable  on  the  canal  boat,  coming  out  here  those 

[188] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

years  ago,  that  it  hardly  seemed  possible  for  you  merely 
to  live;  and  when  you  started  the  hearths  at  Tubal  Cain 
everyone  who  knew  anything  about  iron  just  laughed  at 
you  —  we  used  to  go  down  sometimes  and  look  at  those 
killing  workmen  you  had,  and  that  single  mule  and  old 
horse. 

"  I  wasn't  interested  then,  and  I  don't  know  when  it 
happened;  but  now  I  can  see  that  a  time  soon  came  when 
men  stopped  laughing  at  you.  I  can  just  remember  when 
father  first  became  seriously  annoyed,  when  he  declared 
that  he  was  going  to  force  you  out  of  the  valleys  at  once. 
But  it  seemed  you  didn't  go.  And  then  in  a  few  months 
he  came  home  in  a  dreadful  temper,  when  he  found  that 
you  controlled  all  the  timber  on  the  mountains.  He  said 
of  course  you  would  break  before  he  was  really  short  of 
charcoal.  But  it  seems  you  haven't  broken.  And  now 
I'm  married  to  you;  I'm  Gisela  Hulings!  " 

"  This  is  hardly  more  than  the  beginning,"  he  added; 
"  the  foundation  —  just  as  iron  is  the  base  for  so  much. 
I  —  we  —  are  going  on,"  he  corrected  the  period  lamely, 
but  was  rewarded  by  a  charming  smile.  "  Power !  "  he 
said,  shutting  up  one  hand,  his  straight,  fine  features  as 
hard  as  the  cameo  in  his  neckcloth. 

She  instantly  fired  at  his  tensity  of  will. 

"  How  splendid  you  are,  Alexander!  "  she  cried.  "  How 
tremendously  satisfactory  for  a  woman  to  share!  You 
can  have  no  idea  what  it  means  to  be  with  a  man  like  a 
stone  wall! 

"  I  wish,"  she  said,  "  that  you  would  always  tell  me 
about  your  work.  I'd  like  more  than  anything  else  to 
see  you  going  on,  step  by  step  up.  I  suppose  it  is  ex- 

[189] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

traordinary  in  a  woman.  I  felt  that  way  about  father's 
iron,  and  he  only  laughed  at  me;  and  yet  once  I  kept  a 
forge  daybook  almost  a  week,  when  a  clerk  was  ill.  I 
think  I  could  be  of  real  assistance  to  you,  Alexander." 

He  regarded  with  the  profoundest  distaste  any  mingling 
of  his,  Alexander  Hulings',  wife  and  a  commercial  in 
dustry.  He  had  married  in  order  to  give  his  life  a  final 
touch  of  elegance  and  proper  symmetry.  No,  no;  he 
wanted  Gisela  to  receive  him  at  the  door  of  his  mansion, 
in  fleckless  white,  as  she  was  now,  and  jewels,  at  the 
end  of  his  day  in  the  clamor  and  soot  of  business  and 
put  it  temporarily  from  his  thoughts. 

He  was  distinctly  annoyed  that  her  father  had  per 
mitted  her  to  post  the  forge  book;  it  was  an  exceedingly 
unladylike  proceeding.  He  told  her  something  of  this  in 
carefully  chosen,  deliberate  words;  and  she  listened 
quietly,  but  with  a  faint  air  of  disappointment. 

"  I  want  you  to  buy  yourself  whatever  you  fancy,"  he 
continued;  "nothing  is  too  good  for  you  —  for  my  wife. 
I  am  very  proud  of  you  and  insist  on  your  making  the 
best  appearance,  wherever  we  are.  Next  year,  if  the 
political  weather  clears  at  all,  we'll  go  to  Paris,  and  you 
can  explore  the  mantuamakers  there.  You  got  the 
shawls  in  your  dressing  room?  " 

She  hesitated,  cutting  uncertainly  with  a  heavy  silver 
knife  at  a  crystallized  citron. 

Then,  with  an  expression  of  determination,  she  ad 
dressed  him  again: 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  it  is  your  power,  your  success 
over  men,  that  fascinates  me;  that  first  made  me  think  of 
you?  In  a  way  this  is  not  —  not  an  ordinary  affair  of 

[190] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

ours;  I  had  other  chances  more  commonplace,  which  my 
father  encouraged,  but  they  seemed  so  stupid  that  I 
couldn't  entertain  them.  I  love  pretty  clothes,  Alexander; 
I  adore  the  things  you've  given  me;  but  will  you  mind  my 
saying  that  that  isn't  what  I  married  you  for?  I  am 
sure  you  don't  care  for  such  details,  for  money  itself,  in 
the  least.  You  are  too  strong.  And  that  is  why  I  mar 
ried  you,  why  I  love  to  think  about  you,  and  what  I  want 
to  follow,  to  admire  and  understand." 

He  was  conscious  of  only  a  slight  irritation  at  this 
masculine-sounding  speech;  he  must  have  no  hesitation 
in  uprooting  such  ideas  from  his  wife's  thoughts;  they 
detracted  from  her  feminine  charm,  struck  at  the  bottom 
of  her  duties,  her  privileges  and  place. 

"  At  the  next  furnace  in  blast,"  he  told  her  with  admi 
rable  control,  "  the  workmen  will  insist  on  your  throwing 
in,  as  my  bride,  a  slipper;  and  in  that  way  you  can  help 
the  charge." 

Then,  by  planning  an  immediate  trip  with  her  to 
West  Virginia,  he  abruptly  brought  the  discussion  to  a 
close. 

Alexander  was  pleased,  during  the  weeks  which  fol 
lowed,  at  the  fact  that  she  made  no  further  reference  to 
iron.  She  went  about  the  house,  gravely  busy  with  its 
maintenance,  as  direct  and  efficient  as  he  was  in  the 
larger  realm.  Almost  her  first  act  was  to  discharge  the 
housekeeper.  The  woman  came  to  Alexander,  her  fat 
face  smeared  with  crying,  and  protested  bitterly  against 
the  loss  of  a  place  she  had  filled  since  the  house  was 
roofed. 

He  was,  of  course,  curt  with  her,  and  ratified  Gisela's 
[191] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

decision;  but  privately  he  was  annoyed.  He  had  not 
even  intended  his  wife  to  discharge  the  practical  duties  of 
living  —  thinking  of  her  as  a  suave  figure  languidly 
moving  from  parlor  to  dining  room  or  boudoir;  however, 
meeting  her  in  a  hall,  energetically  directing  the  dusting 
of  a  cornice,  in  a  rare  flash  of  perception  he  said  nothing. 


XII 

He  would  not  admit,  even  to  himself,  that  his  material 
affairs  were  less  satisfactory  than  they  had  been  the  year 
before,  but  such  he  vaguely  knew  was  a  fact.  Specula 
tion  in  Western  government  lands,  large  investments  in 
transportation  systems  for  the  present  fallow,  had  brought 
about  a  general  condition  of  commercial  unrest.  Alex 
ander  Hulings  felt  this,  not  only  by  the  delayed  payment 
for  shipments  of  metal  but  in  the  allied  interests  he  had 
accumulated.  Merchandise  was  often  preceded  by  de 
mands  for  payment;  the  business  of  a  nail  manufactory 
he  owned  in  Wheeling  had  been  cut  in  half. 

He  could  detect  concern  in  the  shrewd  countenance  and 
tones  of  Samuel  Cryble,  a  hard-headed  Yankee  from  a 
Scotch  Protestant  valley  in  New  Hampshire,  who  had 
risen  to  the  position  of  his  chief  assistant  and,  in  a  small 
way,  copartner.  They  sat  together  in  the  dingy  office  on 
the  public  road  and  silently,  grimly,  went  over  invoices 
and  payments,  debts  and  debtors.  It  was  on  such  an 
occasion  that  Alexander  had  word  of  the  death  of  Doctor 
Veneada. 

Hulings'  involuntary  concern,  the  stirred  memories  of 
[192] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

the  dead  man's  liberal  spirit  and  mind  —  he  had  been 
the  only  person  Alexander  Hulings  could  call  friend  — 
speedily  gave  place  to  a  growing  anxiety  as  to  how 
Veneada  might  have  left  his  affairs.  He  had  been  largely 
a  careless  man  in  practical  matters. 

Alexander  had  never  satisfied  the  mortgage  he  had 
granted  Veneada  on  the  timber  properties  purchased 
with  the  other  man's  money.  He  had  tried  to  settle  the 
indebtedness  when  it  had  first  fallen  due,  but  the  doctor 
had  begged  him  to  let  the  money  remain  as  it  was. 

"  I'll  only  throw  it  away  on  some  confounded  soft- 
witted  scheme,  Alex,"  he  had  insisted.  "  With  you,  I 
know  where  it  is;  it's  a  good  investment." 

Now  Hulings  recalled  that  the  second  extension  had 
expired  only  a  few  weeks  before  Veneada's  death,  incurring 
an  obligation  the  settlement  of  which  he  had  been  impa 
tiently  deferring  until  he  saw  the  other. 

He  had  had  a  feeling  that  Veneada,  with  no  near  or 
highly  regarded  relatives,  would  will  him  the  timber 
about  the  valleys;  yet  he  was  anxious  to  have  the  thing 
settled.  The  Alexander  Hulings  Company  was  short  of 
available  funds.  He  returned  to  Eastlake  for  Veneada's 
funeral;  and  there,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  the  cousins 
to  whom  the  doctor  had  occasionally  and  lightly  alluded. 
They  were,  he  decided,  a  lean  and  rapacious  crew. 

He  remained  in  Eastlake  for  another  twenty-four  hours, 
but  was  forced  to  leave  with  nothing  discovered;  and 
it  was  not  until  a  week  later  that,  again  in  his  office,  he 
learned  that  Veneada  had  made  no  will.  This,  it  seemed, 
had  been  shown  beyond  any  doubt.  He  rose,  walked  to  a 
dusty  window,  and  gazed  out  unseeingly  at  an  eddy  of 

[193] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

dead  leaves  and  dry  metallic  snow  in  a  bleak  November 
wind. 

After  a  vague,  disconcerted  moment  he  shrewdly  divined 
exactly  what  would  occur.  He  said  nothing  to  Cryble, 
seated  with  his  back  toward  him ;  and  even  Gisela  looked 
with  silent  inquiry  at  his  absorption  throughout  supper. 
She  never  questioned  him  now  about  any  abstraction 
that  might  be  concerned  with  affairs  outside  their  pleas 
ant  life  together. 

The  inevitable  letter  at  last  arrived,  announcing  the 
fact  that,  in  a  partition  settlement  of  Veneada's  estate 
by  his  heirs,  it  was  necessary  to  settle  the  expired 
mortgage.  It  could  not  have  come,  he  realized,  at  a  more 
inconvenient  time. 

He  was  forced  to  discuss  the  position  with  Cryble;  and 
the  latter  heard  him  to  the  end  with  a  narrowed,  search 
ing  vision. 

"  That  money  out  of  the  business  now  might  leave  us 
on  the  bank,"  he  asserted.  "  As  I  see  it,  there's  but  one 
thing  to  do  —  go  over  all  the  timber,  judge  what  we 
actually  will  need  for  coaling,  buy  that  —  or,  if  we  must, 
put  another  mortgage  on  it  —  and  let  the  rest,  a  good 
two-thirds,  go." 

This,  Alexander  acknowledged  to  himself,  was  the 
logical  if  not  the  only  course.  And  then  John  Wood- 
drop  would  purchase  the  remainder ;  he  would  have  enough 
charcoal  to  keep  up  his  local  industries  beyond  his  own 
life  and  another.  All  his  —  Alexander's  —  planning, 
aspirations,  sacrifice,  would  have  been  for  nothing.  He 
would  never,  like  John  Wooddrop,  be  a  great  industrial 
despot,  or  command,  as  he  had  so  often  pictured,  the  iron 

[194] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

situation  of  the  state.  To  do  that,  he  would  have  to  con 
trol  all  the  iron  the  fumes  of  whose  manufacture  stained 
the  sky  for  miles  about  Harmony.  If  Wooddrop  re 
covered  an  adequate  fuel  supply  Alexander  Hulings  would 
never  occupy  more  than  a  position  of  secondary  impor 
tance. 

There  was  a  bare  possibility  of  his  retaining  all  the 
tracts  again  by  a  second  mortgage;  but  as  he  examined 
that,  it  sank  from  a  potentiality  to  a  thing  without  sub 
stance.  It  would  invite  an  investigation,  a  public  glean 
ing  of  facts,  that  he  must  now  avoid.  His  pride  could 
not  contemplate  the  publication  of  the  undeniable  truth 
—  that  what  he  had  so  laboriously  built  up  stood  on  an 
insecure  foundation. 

"  It  is  necessary,"  he  said  stiffly,  "  in  order  to  realize 
on  my  calculations,  that  I  continue  to  hold  all  the  timber 
at  present  in  my  name." 

"  And  that's  where  you  make  a  mis  judgment,"  Cryble 
declared,  equally  blunt.  "  I  can  see  clear  enough  that 
you  are  letting  your  personal  feeling  affect  your  business 
sense.  There  is  room  enough  in  Pennsylvania  for  both 
you  and  old  Wooddrop.  Anyhow,  there's  got  to  be  some 
body  second  in  the  parade,  and  that  is  a  whole  lot  better 
than  tail  end." 

Alexander  Hulings  nodded  absently;  Cryble's  philoso 
phy  was  correct  for  a  clerk,  an  assistant,  but  Alexander 
Hulings  felt  the  tyranny  of  a  wider  necessity.  He  won 
dered  where  he  could  get  the  money  to  satisfy  the  claim 
of  the  doctor's  heirs.  His  manufacturing  interests  in  West 
Virginia,  depreciated  as  they  were  at  present,  would  about 
cover  the  debt.  Ordinarily  they  were  worth  a  third 

[195] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

more;  and  in  ten  years  they  would  double  in  value.  He 
relentlessly  crushed  all  regret  at  parting  with  what  was 
now  his  best  property  and  promptly  made  arrangements 
to  secure  permanently  the  timberland. 

Soon,  he  felt,  John  Wooddrop  must  feel  the  pinch  of 
fuel  shortage;  and  Alexander  awaited  such  development 
with  keen  attention.  As  he  had  anticipated,  when  driv 
ing  from  the  canal,  he  saw  that  the  Blue  Lump  Furnace 
had  gone  out  of  blast,  its  workmen  dispersed.  Gisela,  the 
day  before,  had  been  to  see  her  father;  and  he  was  curious 
to  hear  what  she  might  report.  A  feeling  of  coming 
triumph,  of  inevitable,  worldly  expansion,  settled  com 
fortably  over  him,  and  he  regarded  his  wife  pleasantly 
through  a  curtain  of  cigar  smoke. 

They  were  seated  in  a  parlor,  already  shadowy  in  an 
early  February  dusk;  coals  were  burning  brightly  in  a 
polished  open  stove,  by  which  Gisela  was  embroidering 
in  brightly  colored  wool  on  a  frame.  She  had  the  in 
tent,  placid  expression  of  a  woman  absorbed  in  a  small, 
familiar  duty.  As  he  watched  her  Alexander  Rulings' 
satisfaction  deepened  —  young  and  fine  and  vigorous, 
she  was  preeminently  a  wife  for  his  importance  and  posi 
tion.  She  gazed  at  him  vacantly,  her  eyes  crinkled  at 
the  corners,  her  lips  soundlessly  counting  stitches,  and  a 
faint  smile  rose  to  his  lips. 

He  was  anxious  to  hear  what  she  might  say  about  John 
Wooddrop,  and  yet  a  feeling  of  propriety  restrained  him 
from  a  direct  question.  He  had  not  had  a  line,  a  word  or 
message,  from  Wooddrop  since  he  had  married  the  other's 
daughter.  The  aging  man,  he  knew,  idolized  Gisela;  and 
her  desertion  —  for  so  John  Wooddrop  would  hold  it  — 

[196] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

must  have  torn  the  Ironmaster.  She  had,  however,  been 
justified  in  her  choice,  he  contentedly  continued  his  train 
of  thought.  Gisela  had  everything  a  woman  could  wish 
for.  He  had  been  a  thoughtful  husband.  Her  clothes, 
of  the  most  beautiful  texture  and  design,  were  pinned  with 
jewels;  her  deftly  moving  fingers  flashed  with  rings;  the 
symbol  of  his  success,  his 

"  My  father  looks  badly,  Alexander,"  she  said  sud 
denly.  "  I  wish  you  would  see  him,  and  that  he  would 
talk  to  you.  But  you  won't  and  he  won't.  He  is  very 
nearly  as  stubborn  as  yourself.  I  wish  you  could  make 
a  move;  after  all,  you  are  younger.  .  .  .  But  then,  you 
would  make  each  other  furious  in  a  second."  She  sighed 
deeply. 

"  Has  he  shown  any  desire  to  see  me?  " 

"  No,"  she  admitted.  "  You  must  know  he  thinks  you 
married  me  only  to  get  his  furnaces ;  he  is  ridiculous  about 
it  —  just  as  if  you  needed  any  more!  He  has  been  fum 
ing  and  planning  a  hundred  things  since  his  charcoal  has 
been  getting  low." 

She  stopped  and  scrutinized  her  embroidery,  a  nai've 
pattern  of  rose  and  urn  and  motto.  He  drew  a  long 
breath;  that  was  the  first  tangible  indication  he  had  had 
of  the  working  out  of  his  planning,  the  justification  of 
his  sacrifice. 

"  I  admire  father,"  she  went  on  once  more,  conversa 
tionally;  "  my  love  for  you  hasn't  blinded  me  to  his 
qualities.  He  has  a  surprising  courage  and  vigor  for 

an Why,  he  must  be  nearly  seventy!  And  now 

he  has  the  most  extraordinary  plan  for  what  he  calls 
'  getting  the  better  of  you.'  He  was  as  nice  with  me  as 

[197] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

possible,  but  I  could  see  that  he  thinks  you're  lost  this 
time.  .  .  .  No,  the  darker  green.  Alexander,  don't  you 
think  the  words  would  be  sweet  in  magenta?  " 

"  Well,"  he  demanded  harshly,  leaning  forward, 
"what  is  this  plan?" 

She  looked  up,  surprised  at  his  hard  impatience. 

"  How  queer  you  are !  And  that's  your  iron  expres 
sion;  you  know  it's  expressly  forbidden  in  the  house,  after 
hours.  His  plan?  I'm  certain  there's  no  disloyalty  in 
telling  you.  Isn't  it  mad,  at  his  age?  And  it  will  cost 
him  an  outrageous  amount  of  money.  He  is  going  to 
change  the  entire  system  of  all  his  forges  and  furnaces. 
It  seems  stone  coal  has  been  found  on  his  slopes;  and  he 
is  going  to  blow  in  with  that,  and  use  a  hot  blast  in  his 
smelting." 

Alexander  Hulings  sat  rigid,  motionless;  the  cigar  in 
his  hand  cast  up  an  unbroken  blue  ribbon  of  smoke. 
Twice  he  started  to  speak,  to  exclaim  incredulously;  but 
he  uttered  no  sound.  It  seemed  that  all  his  planning  had 
been  utterly  overthrown,  ruined;  in  a  manner  which  he 
—  anyone  —  could  not  have  foreseen.  The  blowing  in  of 
furnaces  with  hard  coal  had  developed  since  his  entrance 
into  the  iron  field.  It  had  not  been  generally  declared 
successful;  the  pig  produced  had  been  so  impure  that, 
with  working  in  an  ordinary  or  even  puddling  forge,  it 
had  often  to  be  subjected  to  a  third,  finery  fire.  But  he 
had  been  conscious  of  a  slow  improvement  in  the  newer 
working;  he  had  vaguely  acknowledged  that  sometime 
anthracite  would  displace  charcoal  for  manufacturing 
purposes;  in  future  years  he  might  adopt  it  himself. 

But  John  Wooddrop  had  done  it  before  him;  all  the 
[198] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

square  miles  of  timber  that  he  had  acquired  with  such 
difficulty,  that  he  had  retained  at  the  sacrifice  of  his 
best  property,  would  be  worthless.  The  greater  part  of 
it  could  not  be  teamed  across  Wooddrop's  private  roads  or 
hauled  advantageously  over  a  hundred  intervening  streams 
and  miles.  It  was  all  wasted,  lapsed  —  his  money, 
dreams ! 

"  It  will  take  over  a  year,"  she  went  on.  "  I  don't 
understand  it  at  all;  but  it  seems  that  sending  a  hot 
blast  into  a  furnace,  instead  of  the  cold,  keeps  the  metal 
at  a  more  even  temperature.  Father's  so  interested  you'd 
think  he  was  just  starting  out  in  life  —  though,  really,  he 
is  an  old  man."  She  laughed.  "  Competition  has  been 
good  for  him." 

All  thrown  away;  in  vain!  Alexander  Hulings  won 
dered  what  acidulous  comment  Cryble  would  make. 
There  were  no  coal  deposits  on  his  land,  its  nature  for 
bade  that;  besides,  he  had  no  money  to  change  the  prin 
cipal  of  his  drafts.  He  gazed  about  at  the  luxury  that 
surrounded  Gisela  and  himself;  there  was  no  lien  on  the 
house,  but  there  still  remained  some  thousands  of  dollars 
to  pay  on  the  carpets  and  fixtures.  His  credit,  at  least, 
was  unimpeachable;  decorators,  tradespeople  of  all  sorts, 
had  been  glad  to  have  him  in  their  debt.  But  if  any 
whisper  of  financial  stringency  escaped,  a  horde  would 
be  howling  about  his  gate,  demanding  the  settlement  of 
their  picayune  accounts. 

The  twilight  had  deepened;  the  fire  made  a  ruddy  area 
in  the  gloom,  into  the  heart  of  which  he  flung  his  cigar. 
His  wife  embroidered  serenely.  As  he  watched  her,  not 
ing  her  firm,  well-modeled  features,  realizing  her  utter 
[199] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

unconsciousnss  of  all  that  he  essentially  at  that  moment 
was,  he  felt  a  strange  sensation  of  loneliness,  of  isola 
tion. 

Alexander  Hulings  had  a  sudden  impulse  to  take  her 
into  his  confidence;  to  explain  everything  to  her  —  the 
disaster  that  had  overtaken  his  project  of  ultimate  power, 
the  loss  of  the  West  Virginia  interest,  the  tightness  of 
money.  He  had  a  feeling  that  she  would  not  be  a 
negligible  adviser  —  he  had  been  a  witness  of  her  efficient 
management  of  his  house  —  and  he  felt  a  craving  for  the 
sympathy  she  would  instantly  extend. 

Alexander  parted  his  lips  to  inform  her  of  all  that 
had  occurred;  but  the  habit  of  years,  the  innate  fiber  of 
his  being,  prevented.  A  wife,  he  reminded  himself,  a 
woman,  had  no  part  in  the  bitter  struggle  for  existence; 
it  was  not  becoming  for  her  to  mingle  with  the  affairs  of 
men.  She  should  be  purely  a  creature  of  elegance,  of 
solace,  and,  dressed  in  India  muslin  or  vaporous  silk, 
ornament  a  divan,  sing  French  or  Italian  songs  at  a 
piano.  The  other  was  manifestly  improper. 

This,  illogically,  made  him  irritable  with  Gisela;  she 
appeared,  contentedly  sewing,  a  peculiarly  useless  ap 
pendage  in  his  present  stress  of  mind.  He  was  glum  again 
at  supper,  and  afterward  retired  into  an  office  he  had  had 
arranged  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  mansion.  There  he 
got  out  a  number  of  papers,  accounts  and  pass  books; 
but  he  spent  little  actual  time  on  them.  He  sat  back  in 
his  chair,  with  his  head  sunk  low,  and  mind  thronged  with 
memories  of  the  past,  of  his  long,  uphill  struggle  against 
oblivion  and  ill  health. 

Veneada  was  gone;  yes,  and  Conrad  Wishon  too  —  the 
[200] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

supporters  and  confidants  of  his  beginning.  He  himself 
was  fifty  years  old.  At  that  age  a  man  should  be  firmly 
established,  successful  and  not  deviled  by  a  thousand 
unexpected  mishaps.  By  fifty  a  man's  mind  should  be 
reasonably  at  rest,  his  accomplishment  and  future  secure; 
while  there  was  nothing  of  security,  but  only  combat, 
before  him. 

Wooddrop  had  been  a  rich  man  from  the  start,  when  he, 
Alexander  Hulings,  at  the  humiliating  failure  of  the  law, 
had  had  to  face  life  with  a  few  paltry  hundreds.  No 
wonder  he  had  been  obliged  to  contract  debts,  to  enter  into 
impossibly  onerous  agreements!  Nothing  but  struggle 
ahead,  a  relentless  continuation  of  the  past  years;  and  he 
had  reached,  passed,  his  prime! 

There,  for  a  day,  he  had  thought  himself  safe,  moving 
smoothly  toward  the  highest  pinnacles;  when,  without 
warning,  at  a  few  words  casually  pronounced  over  an 
embroidery  frame,  the  entire  fabric  of  his  existence  had 
been  rent!  It  was  not  alone  the  fact  of  John  Wood- 
drop's  progressive  spirit  that  he  faced,  but  now  a  rapidly 
accumulating  mass  of  difficulties.  He  was  dully  amazed 
at  the  treacherous  shifting  of  life,  at  the  unheralded  change 
of  apparently  solid  ground  for  quicksand. 

XIII 

Though  the  industries  centered  about  Tubal  Cain  were 
operated  and  apparently  owned  by  the  Alexander  Hulings 
Iron  Company,  and  Hulings  was  publicly  regarded  as 
their  proprietor,  in  reality  his  hold  on  them  was  hardly 
more  than  nominal.  At  the  erection  of  the  furnaces  and 

[201] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

supplementary  forges  he  had  been  obliged  to  grant  such 
rebates  to  the  Columbus  Transportation  interest  in  re 
turn  for  capital,  he  had  contracted  to  supply  them  at  a 
minimum  price  such  a  large  proportion  of  his  possible 
output,  that,  with  continuous  shifts,  he  was  barely  able 
to  dispose  advantageously  of  a  sixth  of  the  year's  manu 
facture. 

He  had  made  such  agreement  confident  that  he  would 
ultimately  control  the  Wooddrop  furnaces;  when,  doubling 
his  resources,  he  would  soon  free  himself  from  conditions 
imposed  on  him  by  an  early  lack  of  funds.  Now  it  was 
at  least  problematic  whether  he  would  ever  extend  his 
power  to  include  the  older  man's  domain.  His  marriage 
with  Gisela  had  only  further  separated  them,  hardening 
John  Wooddrop's  resolve  that  Hulings  should  never  fire 
a  hearth  of  his,  a  determination  strengthened  by  the  re 
building  of  Wooddrop's  furnaces  for  a  stone-coal  heat. 

The  widespread  land  speculation,  together  with  the 
variability  of  currency,  now  began  seriously  to  depress 
the  country,  and,  more  especially,  Alexander  Hulings. 
He  went  to  Philadelphia,  to  Washington,  for  conferences; 
but  returned  to  his  mansion,  to  Gisela,  in  an  increasing 
somberness  of  mood.  All  the  expedients  suggested,  the 
legalizing  of  foreign  gold  and  silver,  the  gradual  elimina 
tion  of  the  smaller  state-bank  notes,  an  extra  coinage, 
one  after  another  failed  in  their  purpose  of  stabilization; 
acute  panic  threatened. 

Alexander  was  almost  as  spare  of  political  comments 
to  his  wife  as  he  was  of  business  discussion.  That,  too, 
he  thought,  did  not  become  the  female  poise.  At  times, 

[202] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

bitter  and  brief,  he  condemned  the  Administration;  dur 
ing  dinner  he  all  but  startled  a  servant  into  dropping  a 
platter  by  the  unexpected  violence  of  a  period  hurled  at 
the  successful  attempts  to  destroy  the  national  bank. 
And  when,  as  —  he  declared  —  a  result  of  that,  the  state 
institutions  refused  specie  payment,  and  a  flood  of  rapidly 
depreciating  paper  struck  at  the  base  of  commerce,  Alex 
ander  gloomily  informed  Gisela  that  the  country  was  be 
ing  sold  for  a  barrel  of  hard  cider. 

He  had,  with  difficulty,  a  while  before  secured  what  had 
appeared  to  be  an  advantageous  order  from  Virginia;  and, 
after  extraordinary  effort,  he  had  delivered  the  iron.  But 
during  the  lapsing  weeks,  when  the  state  banks  refused 
to  circulate  gold,  the  rate  of  exchange  for  paper  money 
fell  so  far  that  he  lost  all  his  calculated  profit,  and  a 
quarter  of  the  labor  as  well.  The  money  of  other  states 
depreciated  in  Pennsylvania  a  third.  In  addition  to  these 
things  Alexander  commenced  to  have  trouble  with  his 
workmen  —  wages,  too,  had  diminished,  but  their  hours 
increased.  Hulings,  like  other  commercial  operators,  is 
sued  printed  money  of  his  own,  good  at  the  company 
store,  useful  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Tubal  Cain,  but 
valueless  at  any  distance.  Cryble,  as  he  had  anticipated, 
recounted  the  triumph  of  John  Wooddrop. 

"The  old  man  can't  be  beat!  "  he  asserted.  "We've 
got  a  nice  little  business  here.  Tailed  on  to  Wooddrop's, 
we  should  do  good;  but  you  are  running  it  into  an  iron 
wall.  You  ain't  content  with  enough." 

Cryble  was  apparently  unconscious  of  the  dangerous 
glitter  that  had  come  into  Hulings'  gaze.  Alexander 

[203] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

listened  quietly  until  the  other  had  finished,  and  then 
curtly  released  him  from  all  connection  or  obligation  with 
himself.  James  Cryble  was  undisturbed. 

"  I  was  thinking  myself  about  a  move,"  he  declared. 
"  This  concern  is  pointed  bull-headed  onto  destruction! 
You're  a  sort  of  peacock,"  he  further  told  Hulings;  "  you 
can't  do  much  besides  spread  and  admire  your  own  feath 
ers.  But  you'll  get  learned." 

Alexander  made  no  reply,  and  the  other  shortly  after 
disappeared  from  his  horizon.  Cryble,  he  thought  con 
temptuously,  a  man  of  routine,  had  no  more  salience  than 
one  of  the  thousands  of  identical  iron  pigs  run  from  Glory 
Furnace.  There  commenced  now  a  period  of  toil  more 
bitter,  more  relentless  than  his  first  experience  in  the  val 
leys;  by  constant  effort  he  was  able  to  keep  just  ahead 
of  the  unprofitable  labor  for  the  Columbus  Railroad.  The 
number  of  workmen  grew  constantly  smaller,  vaguely 
contaminated  by  the  unsettled  period,  while  his  necessity 
increased.  Again  and  again  he  longed  to  strip  off  his 
coat  and  superfluous  linen  and  join  the  men  working  the 
metal  in  the  hearths;  he  would  have  felt  better  if  he  could 
have  had  actual  part  in  rolling  and  stamping  the  pig  beds, 
or  even  in  dumping  materials  into  the  furnace  stack. 

As  it  was,  consumed  by  a  fever  of  impatience  and  con 
cern,  the  manufacture  of  his  iron  seemed  to  require  months 
between  the  crude  ore  and  the  finished  bars  and  blooms. 
He  detected  a  growing  impotence  among  laborers,  and 
told  them  of  it  with  an  unsparing,  lashing  tongue.  A 
general  hatred  of  him  again  flashed  into  being;  but  it  was 
still  accompanied  by  a  respect  amounting  to  fear. 

He  was  approached,  at  a  climax  of  misfortune,  by 
[204] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

representatives  of  the  railroad.  They  sat,  their  solid 
faces  rimmed  in  whiskers,  and  smooth  fingers  playing 
with  portentous  seals,  in  his  office,  while  one  of  their 
number  expounded  their  presence. 

"  It's  only  reasonable,  Hulings,"  he  stated  suavely, 
"  that  one  man  can't  stand  up  against  present  conditions. 
Big  concerns  all  along  the  coast  have  gone  to  wreck. 
You  are  an  exceptional  man,  one  we  would  be  glad  to 
have  in  our  Company;  and  that,  briefly,  is  what  we  have 
come  to  persuade  you  to  do  —  to  merge  your  activities  here 
into  the  railroad;  to  get  on  the  locomotive  with  us. 

"  Long  ago  you  were  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  steam 
transportation  was  the  coming  power;  and  now  —  though 
for  the  moment  we  seem  overextended  —  your  judgment 
has  been  approved.  It  only  remains  for  you  to  ratify 
your  perspicacity  and  definitely  join  us.  We  can,  I 
think,  offer  you  something  in  full  keeping  with  your  abil 
ity  —  a  vice  presidency  of  the  reorganized  company  and 
a  substantial  personal  interest." 

Alexander  attended  the  speaker  half  absently,  though 
he  realized  that  probably  he  had  arrived  at  the  crisis  of 
his  life,  his  career;  his  attention  was  rapt  away  by  dreams, 
memories.  He  saw  himself  again,  saturated  with  sweat 
and  grime,  sitting  with  Conrad  Wishon  against  the  little 
house  where  they  slept,  and  planning  his  empire  of  iron; 
he  thought  again,  even  further  back,  of  the  slough  of 
anguish  from  which  he  had  won  free;  and  persistently, 
woven  through  the  entire  texture,  was  his  vision  of  iron 
and  of  pride.  He  had  sworn  to  himself  that  he  would 
build  success  from  the  metal  for  which  he  had  such  a  per 
sonal  affinity;  that  he  would  be  known  as  the  great  Iron- 

[205] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

master  of  Pennsylvania;  and  that  unsubstantial  ideal, 
tottering  now  on  the  edge  of  calamity,  was  still  more 
potent,  more  persuasive,  than  the  concrete  and  definite 
promises  of  safety,  prosperity,  the  implied  threat,  of  the 
established  power  before  him. 

He  had  an  objective  comprehension  of  the  peril  of 
his  position,  his  negligible  funds  and  decreasing  credit, 
the  men  with  accounts  clamoring  for  settlement;  he 
thought  absurdly  of  a  tessellated  floor  he  had  lately  laid 
in  his  vestibule,  the  mingled  aggression  and  uncertainty 
on  every  hand;  but  his  subjective  self  rose  up  and  domi 
nated  him.  Louder  than  any  warning,  was  the  cry,  the 
necessity,  for  the  vindication  of  the  triumphant  Alexan 
der  Hulings,  perpetually  rising  higher.  To  surrender 
his  iron  now,  to  enter,  a  mere  individual,  however  elevated, 
into  a  corporation,  was  to  confess  himself  defeated,  to 
tear  down  all  the  radiant  images  from  which  he  had 
derived  his  reason  for  being. 

Hulings  thought  momentarily  of  Gisela;  he  had,  it 
might  be,  no  right  to  involve  her  blindly  in  a  downfall 
of  the  extent  that  now  confronted  him.  However,  he 
relentlessly  repressed  this  consideration,  together  with  a 
vague  idea  of  discussing  with  her  their  —  his  —  position. 
His  was  the  judgment,  the  responsibility,  that  sustained 
them;  she  was  only  an  ornament,  the  singer  of  little  airs 
in  the  evening;  the  decoration,  in  embroidery  and  gilt 
flowers,  of  his  table. 

He  thanked  the  speaker  adequately  and  firmly  voiced 
his  refusal  of  the  offer. 

"  I  am  an  iron  man,"  he  stated  in  partial  explanation; 
"  as  that  I  must  sink  or  swim." 

[206] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

"  Iron/'  another  commented  dryly,  "  is  not  noted  for 
its  floating  properties." 

"  I  am  disappointed,  Hillings,"  the  first  speaker  ac 
knowledged  ;  "  yes,  and  surprised.  Of  course  we  are  not 
ignorant  of  the  condition  here;  and  you  must  also  know 
that  the  company  would  like  to  control  your  furnaces. 
We  have  offered  you  the  palm,  and  you  must  be  willing 
to  meet  the  consequences  of  your  refusal.  As  I  said,  we'd 
like  to  have  you  too  —  energetic  and  capable;  for,  as 
the  Bible  reads,  *  He  that  is  not  for  me '  " 

When  they  had  gone,  driving  in  a  local  surrey  back  to 
the  canal,  Alexander  Hulings  secured  his  hat  and,  dis 
missing  his  carriage,  walked  slowly  down  to  Tubal  Cain 
Forge.  An  increasing  roar  and  uprush  of  sooty  smoke 
and  sparks  marked  the  activity  within;  the  water  poured 
dripping  over  the  water  wheel,  through  the  channel  he  had 
cleared,  those  long  years  back,  with  bleeding  hands; 
strange  men  stood  at  the  shed  opening;  but  the  stream 
and  its  banks  were  exactly  as  he  had  first  seen  them. 

His  life  seemed  to  have  swung  in  a  circle  from  that 
former  day  to  now  —  from  dilemma  to  dilemma.  What, 
after  all,  did  he  have,  except  an  increasing  weariness  of 
years,  that  he  had  lacked  then  ?  He  thought,  with  a  grim 
smile,  that  he  might  find  in  his  safe  nine  hundred  dollars. 
All  his  other  possessions  suddenly  took  on  an  unsubstan 
tial  aspect;  they  were  his;  they  existed;  yet  they  eluded 
his  realization,  brought  him  none  of  the  satisfaction  of  an 
object,  a  fact,  solidly  grasped. 

His  name,  as  he  had  planned,  had  grown  consider 
able  in  men's  ears,  its  murmur  rose  like  an  incense  to  his 
pride;  yet,  underneath,  it  gave  him  no  satisfaction.  It 

[207] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

gave  him  no  satisfaction  because  it  carried  no  conviction 
of  security,  no  personal  corroboration  of  the  mere  sound. 

What,  he  now  saw,  he  had  struggled  to  establish  was 
a  good  opinion  in  his  own  eyes,  that  actually  he  was  a 
strong  man;  the  outer  response,  upon  which  he  had  been 
intent,  was  unimportant  compared  with  the  other.  And 
in  the  latter  he  had  not  moved  forward  a  step;  if  he  had 
widened  his  sphere  he  had  tacitly  accepted  heavier  re 
sponsibilities —  undischarged.  A  flicker  hammered  on  a 
resonant  limb,  just  as  it  had  long  ago.  How  vast,  eternal, 
life  was!  Conrad  Wishon,  with  his  great  arched  chest 
and  knotted  arms,  had  gone  into  the  obliterating  earth. 

Death  was  preferable  to  ruin,  to  the  concerted  gibes  of 
little  men,  the  forgetfulness  of  big;  once,  looking  at  his 
greying  countenance  in  a  mirror,  he  had  realized  that  it 
would  be  easier  for  him  to  die  than  fail.  Then,  with  a 
sudden  twisting  of  his  thoughts,  his  mind  rested  on  Gisela, 
his  wife.  He  told  himself,  with  justifiable  pride,  that 
she  had  been  content. with  him;  Gisela  was  not  an  ordi 
nary  woman,  she  had  not  married  him  for  a  cheap  and 
material  reason,  and  whatever  admiration  she  had  had 
in  the  beginning  he  had  been  able  to  preserve.  Alexander 
Hulings  was  certain  of  that;  he  saw  it  in  a  hundred  little 
acts  of  her  daily  living.  She  thought  he  was  a  big  man, 
a  successful  man;  he  had  not  permitted  a  whisper  of  his 
difficulties  to  fret  her  serenity,  and,  by  heaven !  he  thought 
with  a  sharp  return  of  his  native  vigor,  she  never  should 
hear  of  them;  he  would  stifle  them  quietly,  alone,  one  by 
one. 

The  idea  of  death,  self-inflicted,  a  flaccid  surrender, 
receded  before  the  flood  of  his  returning  pride,  confidence. 

[208] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

Age,  he  exulted,  had  not  impaired  him;  if  his  importance 
was  now  but  a  shell,  he  would  fill  it  with  the  iron  of 
actuality;  he  would  place  himself  and  Gisela  forever  be 
yond  the  threats  of  accident  and  circumstance. 

XIV 

Gisela  had  been  to  Philadelphia,  and  she  was  unusually 
gay,  communicative;  she  was  dressed  in  lavender-and-rose 
net,  with  black  velvet,  and  about  her  throat  she  wore  a 
sparkling  pendant  that  he  had  never  before  noticed. 

"  I  hope  you'll  like  it,"  she  said,  fingering  the  dia 
monds;  "the  shape  was  so  graceful  that  I  couldn't  resist. 
And  you  are  so  generous,  Alexander!  " 

He  was  always  glad,  he  told  her  briefly,  to  see  her  in 
new  and  fine  adornments.  He  repressed  an  involuntary 
grimace  at  the  thought  of  the  probable  cost  of  the  orna 
ment.  She  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  worse  time  in 
which  to  buy  jewels.  Not  only  his  own  situation  but  the 
whole  time  was  one  for  retrenchment.  The  impulse  to 
tell  her  this  was  speedily  lost  in  his  pride  of  her  really 
splendid  appearance.  He  himself  had  commanded  her 
to  purchase  whatever  she  fancied;  he  had  explained  that 
that  —  the  domain  of  beauty  —  was  exclusively  hers;  and 
it  was  impossible  to  complain  at  her  first  considerable 
essay. 

Here  his  feeling  was  rooted  in  the  deepest  part  of  his 
being  —  he  was,  after  all,  twenty-five  years  older  than 
Gisela;  and,  as  if  in  a  species  of  reparation  for  the  dis 
crepancy,  he  owed  her  all  the  luxury  possible.  This 
he  had  promised  her — and  himself;  and  an  inability  to 

[209] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

provide  gowns  and  necklaces  and  gewgaws  was  a  most 
humiliating  confession  of  failure,  a  failure  unendurable  to 
him  on  every  plane.  Alexander,  too,  had  told  her  finally 
that  she  had  no  place  in  his  affairs  of  business;  and  after 
that  he  could  not  very  well  burden  her  with  the  details  of 
a  stupid  —  and  momentary  —  need  for  economy. 

"  I  got  a  bouquet  holder,"  she  continued  — "  sweet,  in 
chased  gold,  with  garnets.  And  a  new  prayer  book;  you 
must  see  that  —  bound  in  carved  ivory,  from  Paris."  He 
listened  with  a  stolid  face  to  her  recital,  vaguely  wonder 
ing  how  much  she  had  spent;  how  long  the  jeweler  would 
wait  for  settlement.  "  And  there  was  a  wonderful  Swiss 
watch  I  thought  of  for  you;  it  rang  the  hours  and " 

"  That,"  he  said  hastily,  "  I  don't  need.  I  have  two 
excellent  watches." 

"But  you  are  always  complaining!"  she  returned, 
mildly  surprised.  "  I  didn't  get  it,  but  told  the  man  to 
put  it  aside.  I'll  write  if  you  don't  want  it." 

"Do!" 

Suddenly  he  felt  weary,  a  twinge  of  sciatica  shot 
through  his  hip;  he  must  keep  out  of  the  damp  cast  houses, 
with  their  expanses  of  wet  sand.  But  actually  he  was  as 
good  as  he  had  ever  been;  better,  for  he  now  saw  clearly 
what  he  must  accomplish,  satisfy.  The  present  national 
crisis  would  lift;  there  was  already  a  talk  of  the  resump 
tion  of  gold  payment  by  the  state  banks;  and  the  collapse 
of  a  firm  associated  with  him  in  a  rolling  mill  had  thrown 
its  control  into  his  hands.  Steam  power  had  already 
been  connected,  and  he  could  supply  the  railroad  corpora 
tion  with  a  certain  number  of  finished  rails  direct,  adding 
slightly  to  his  profit. 

[210] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

The  smallest  gain  was  important,  a  scrap  of  wood 
to  keep  him  temporarily  afloat  on  disturbed  waters;  he 
saw  before  him,  close  by,  solid  land.  But  meantime  more 
than  one  metaphorical  wave  swept  over  his  head,  leaving 
him  shaken.  The  Columbus  people  returned  a  ship 
ment  of  iron,  with  the  complaint  that  it  was  below  the 
grade  useful  for  their  purpose.  He  inspected  the  rejected 
bars  with  his  head  forgeman,  and  they  were  unable  to 
discover  the  deficiency. 

"  That's  good  puddled  iron,"  the  forgeman  asserted. 
11 1  saw  the  pig  myself,  and  it  could  have  been  wrought 
on  a  cold  anvil.  Do  they  expect  blister  steel  ?  " 

Alexander  Hulings  kept  to  himself  the  knowledge  that 
this  was  the  beginning  of  an  assault  upon  his  integrity,  his 
name  and  possessions.  At  court  he  could  have  established 
the  quality  of  his  iron,  forced  the  railroad  to  accept  it 
within  their  contract.  But  he  had  no  money  to  expend 
on  tedious  legal  processes;  and  they  knew  that  in  the 
city. 

"  We  can  get  a  better  price  for  it  than  theirs,"  he  com 
mented. 

The  difficulty  lay  in  supplying  a  stated  amount.  The 
forgeman  profanely  explained  something  of  his  troubles 
with  labor: 

"I  get  my  own  anvils  busy,  and  perhaps  the  furnaces 
running  out  the  metal,  when  the  damn  charcoal  burn 
ers  lay  down.  That's  the  hardest  crowd  of  niggers 
and  drunken  Dutch  that  ever  cut  wood!  It's  never 
a  week  but  one  is  shot  or  has  his  throat  cut;  and 
some  of  the  coal  they  send  down  looks  like  pine 
ash." 

[211] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

At  their  home  he  found  Gisela  with  the  draperies  of 
the  dining  room  in  a  silken  pile  on  the  carpet. 

"  I'm  tired  of  this  room,"  she  announced;  "  it's  too  — 
too  heavy.  Those  plum-colored  curtains  almost  made  me 
weep.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  this  ?  A  white  marble 
mantel  in  place  of  that  black,  and  a  mirror  with  wreaths 
of  colored  gilt.  An  apple  green  carpet,  with  pink  satin 
at  the  windows,  draped  with  India  muslin,  and  gold  cords, 
and  Spanish  mahogany  furniture  —  that's  so  much  lighter 
than  this."  She  studied  the  interior  seriously.  "  Less 
ormolu  and  more  crystal,"  Gisela  decided. 

He  said  nothing;  he  had  given  her  the  house — it  was 
her  world,  to  do  with  as  she  pleased.  The  decorating  of 
the  dining  room  had  cost  over  three  thousand  dollars. 
"  And  a  big  Chinese  cage,  full  of  finches  and  rollers." 
He  got  a  certain  grim  entertainment  from  the  accumulat 
ing  details  of  her  planning.  Certainly  it  would  be  im 
possible  to  find  anywhere  a  wife  more  unconscious  of  the 
sordid  details  of  corrimerce.  Gisela  was  his  ideal  of 
elegance  and  propriety. 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  an  odd,  illogical  loneliness  fasten 
ing  on  him  here,  where  he  had  thought  to  be  most  com 
pletely  at  ease.  His  mind,  filled  with  the  practical  diffi 
culties  of  tomorrow,  rebelled  against  the  restriction  placed 
on  it;  he  wanted  to  unburden  himself  of  his  troubles,  to 
lighten  them  with  discussion,  give  them  the  support  of 
another's  belief  in  his  ability,  his  destiny;  but,  with 
Cryble  gone,  and  his  wife  dedicated  to  purely  aesthetic  con 
siderations,  there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  dared  confess 
his  growing  predicament. 

[212] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

Marriage,  he  even  thought,  was  something  of  a  failure 
—  burdensome.  Gisela,  in  the  exclusive  role  of  a  finch 
in  an  elaborate  cage,  annoyed  him  now  by  her  continual 
chirping  song.  He  thought  disparagingly  of  all  women; 
light  creatures  fashioned  of  silks  and  perfume,  extrava 
gant.  After  supper  he  went  directly  into  his  office  room. 

There,  conversely,  he  was  irritated  with  the  accounts 
spread  perpetually  before  him,  the  announcements  of 
fresh  failures,  depreciated  money  and  bonds.  He  tramped 
back  and  across  the  limited  space,  longing  to  share 
Gisela's  tranquillity.  In  a  manner  he  had  been  unjust 
to  her;  he  had  seen,  noted,  other  women,  his  own  was 
vastly  superior.  Particularly  she  was  truthful,  there  was 
no  subterfuge,  pretense,  about  her;  and  she  had  courage, 
but  —  John  Wooddrop's  daughter  —  she  would  have. 
Alexander  Hulings  thought  of  the  old  man  with  reluctant 
admiration;  he  was  strong;  though  he,  Hulings,  was 
stronger.  He  would,  he  calculated  brutally,  last  longer; 
and  in  the  end  he  would,  must  win. 

XV 

Yet  adverse  circumstances  closed  about  him  like  the 
stone  walls  of  a  cell.  The  slightest  error  or  miscalcula 
tion  would  bring  ruin  crashing  about  his  pretensions.  It 
was  now  principally  his  commanding  interest  in  the  rolling 
mill  that  kept  him  going;  his  forges  and  furnaces,  short 
of  workmen,  were  steadily  losing  ground.  And,  though 
summer  was  at  an  end,  Gisela  chose  this  time  to  divert 
the  labor  of  a  considerable  shift  to  the  setting  of  new 

[213] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

masoned  flower  beds.  He  watched  the  operation  somberly 
from  the  entrance  of  the  conservatory  attached,  like  a 
parti-colored  fantastic  glass  bubble,  to  his  house. 

"  It  won't  take  them  over  four  or  five  days,"  Gisela 
said  at  his  shoulder. 

He  positively  struggled  to  condemn  her  foolish  waste, 
but  not  a  word  escaped  the  barrier  of  his  pride.  Once 
started,  he  would  have  to  explain  the  entire  precarious 
situation  to  her  —  the  labor  shortage,  the  dangerous  ten 
sion  of  his  credit,  the  inimical  powers  anxious  to  absorb 
his  industry,  the  fact  that  he  was  a  potential  failure.  He 
wished,  at  any  sacrifice,  to  keep  the  last  from  his  wife, 
convinced  as  she  was  of  his  success. 

Surely  in  a  few  months  the  sky  would  clear  and  he 
would  triumph  —  this  time  solidly,  beyond  all  assault. 
He  rehearsed  this  without  his  usual  conviction;  the  letters 
from  the  Columbus  System  were  growing  more  dictatorial; 
he  had  received  a  covertly  insolent  communication  from 
an  insignificant  tool  wdrks. 

The  Columbus  Railroad  had  written  that  they  were 
now  able  to  secure  a  rail,  satisfactory  for  their  purpose 
and  tests,  at  a  considerably  lower  figure  than  he  demanded. 
This  puzzled  him;  knowing  intimately  the  whole  iron 
situation,  he  realized  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  firm 
to  make  a  legitimate  profit  at  a  smaller  price  than  his. 
When  he  learned  that  the  new  contracts  were  being  met 
by  John  Wooddrop  his  face  was  ugly  —  the  older  man, 
at  a  sacrifice,  was  deliberately,  coldly  hastening  his  down 
fall.  But  he  abandoned  this  unpleasant  thought  when, 
later,  in  a  circuitous  manner,  he  learned  that  the  Wood- 
drop  Rolling  Mills,  situated  ten  miles  south  of  the  valleys, 

[214] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

were  running  on  a  new,  secret  and  vastly  economical  sys 
tem. 

He  looked  up,  his  brow  scored,  from  his  desk.  Con 
rad  Wishon's  son,  a  huge  bulk,  was  looking  out  through 
a  window,  completely  blocking  off  the  light.  Alexander 
Hulings  said: 

"I'd  give  a  thousand  dollars  to  know  something  of 
that  process!  " 

The  second  Wishon  turned  on  his  heel. 

"  What's  that?  "  he  demanded. 

Alexander  told  him.     The  other  was  thoughtful. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  a  chance  hereabouts,"  he  pronounced; 
"  but  I'm  not  so  well  known  at  the  South  Mills.  Per 
haps " 

Hulings  repeated  moodily: 

"A  thousand  dollars!" 

He  was  skeptical  of  Wishon's  ability  to  learn  anything 
of  the  new  milling.  It  had  to  do  obscurely  with  the 
return  of  the  bars  through  the  rollers  without  having  to  be 
constantly  re-fed.  Such  a  scheme  would  cut  forty  men 
from  the  pay  books. 

A  black  depression  settled  over  him,  as  tangible  as 
soot;  he  felt  physically  weary,  sick.  Alexander  fingered 
an  accumulation  of  bills;  one,  he  saw,  was  from  the  Phila 
delphia  jeweler  —  a  fresh  extravagance  of  Gisela's.  But 
glancing  hastily  at  its  items,  he  was  puzzled  — "  Resetting 
diamond  necklace  in  pendant,  fifty-five  dollars."  It  was 
addressed  to  Gisela;  its  presence  here,  on  his  desk,  was 
an  error.  After  a  momentary,  fretful  conjecturing  he 
dismissed  it  from  his  thoughts;  women  were  beyond  com 
prehension. 

[215] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

He  had  now,  from  the  sciatica,  a  permanent  limp;  a 
cane  had  ceased  to  be  merely  ornamental.  A  hundred 
small  details,  falling  wrongly,  rubbed  on  the  raw  of  his 
dejection.  The  feeling  of  loneliness  deepened  about  him. 
As  the  sun  sank,  throwing  up  over  the  world  a  last  drip 
ping  bath  of  red-gold  light,  he  returned  slowly  to  his 
house.  Each  window,  facing  him,  flashed  in  a  broad 
sheet  of  blinding  radiance,  a  callous  illumination.  A  pea 
cock,  another  of  Gisela's  late  extravagances,  spread  a  bur 
nished  metallic  plumage,  with  a  grating  cry. 

But  the  hall  was  pleasantly  still,  dim.  He  stood  for  a 
long  minute,  resting,  drawing  deep  breaths  of  quietude. 
Every  light  was  lit  in  the  reception  room,  where  he  found 
his  wife,  seated,  in  burnt-orange  satin  and  bare  powdered 
shoulders,  amid  a  glitter  of  glass  prisms,  gilt  and  marble. 
Her  very  brilliance,  her  gay,  careless  smile,  added  to  his 
fatigue.  Suddenly  he  thought  —  I  am  an  old  man  with 
a  young  wife!  His  dejection  changed  to  bitterness. 
Gisela  said: 

"  I  hope  you  like  my  dress;  it  came  from  Vienna,  and 
was  wickedly  expensive.  Really  I  ought  to  wear  sap 
phires  with  it;  I  rather  think  I'll  get  them.  Diamonds 
look  like  glass  with  orange." 

Her  words  were  lost  in  a  confused  blurring  of  his  mind. 
He  swayed  slightly.  Suddenly  the  whole  circumstance 
of  his  living,  of  Gisela's  babbling,  became  unendurable. 
His  pride,  his  conception  of  a  wife  set  in  luxury  above 
the  facts  of  existence,  a  mere  symbol  of  his  importance 
and  wealth,  crumbled,  stripping  him  of  all  pretense.  He 
raised  a  thin,  darkly  veined  and  trembling  hand. 

"Sapphires!"  he  cried  shrilly.  "Why,  next  week 
[216] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

we'll  be  lucky  if  we  can  buy  bread!  I  am  practically 
smashed  —  smashed  at  fifty  and  more.  This  house  that 
you  fix  up  and  fix  up,  that  dress  and  the  diamonds  and 

clocks,  and  —  and They  are  not  real;  in  no  time 

they'll  go,  fade  away  like  smoke,  leave  me  —  us  —  bare. 
For  five  years  I  have  been  fighting  for  my  life;  and  now 
I'm  losing;  everything  is  slipping  out  of  my  hands. 
While  you  talk  of  sapphires;  you  build  bedamned  gardens 
with  the  men  I  need  to  keep  us  alive;  and  peacocks 
and " 

He  stopped  as  abruptly  as  he  had  commenced,  flooded 
with  shame  at  the  fact  that  he  stood  before  her  self-con 
demned;  that  she,  Gisela,  saw  in  him  a  sham.  He  mis 
erably  avoided  her  gaze,  and  was  surprised  when  she 
spoke,  in  an  unperturbed  warm  voice : 

"  Sit  down,  Alexander;  you  are  tired  and  excited." 
She  rose  and,  with  a  steady  hand,  forced  him  into  a  chair. 
"  I  am  glad  that,  at  last,  you  told  me  this,"  she  continued 
evenly;  "  for  now  we  can  face  it,  arrange,  together.  It 
can't  be  so  bad  as  you  suppose.  Naturally  you  are  worn, 
but  you  are  a  very  strong  man;  I  have  great  faith  in  you." 

He  gazed  at  her  in  growing  wonderment;  here  was  an 
entirely  different  woman  from  the  Gisela  who  had  chat 
tered  about  Viennese  gowns.  He  noted,  with  a  renewed 
sense  of  security,  the  firmness  of  her  lips,  her  level,  un 
faltering  gaze.  He  had  had  an  unformulated  conviction 
that  in  crises  women  wrung  their  hands,  fainted.  She 
gesticulated  toward  the  elaborate  furnishings,  including 
her  satin  array: 

"  However  it  may  have  seemed,  I  don't  care  a  bawbee 
about  these  things!  I  never  did;  and  it  always  annoyed 

[217] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

father  as  it  annoyed  you.-  I  am  sorry,  if  you  like.  But 
at  last  we  understand  each  other.  We  can  live,  fight,  in 
telligently." 

Gisela  knew;  regret,  pretense,  were  useless  now,  and 
curiously  in  that  knowledge  she  seemed  to  come  closer 
to  him;  he  had  a  new  sense  of  her  actuality.  Yet  that 
evening  she  not  only  refused  to  listen  to  any  serious  state 
ments,  but  played  and  sang  the  most  frothy  Italian  songs. 


XVI 

On  the  day  following  he  felt  generally  upheld.  His 
old  sense  of  power,  of  domination,  his  contempt  for  petty 
men  and  competitions,  returned.  He  determined  to  go  tc 
Pittsburgh  himself  and  study  the  labor  conditions;  perhaps 
secure  a  fresh,  advantageous  connection.  He  was  plan 
ning  the  details  of  this  when  a  man  he  knew  only  slightly, 
by  sight,  as  connected  with  the  coaling,  swung  uncere 
moniously  into  his  office. 

"  Mr.  Hulings,  sir/'  he  stammered,  "  Wishon  has  been 
shot  — killed." 

"  Impossible!  "  he  ejaculated. 

But  instantly  Alexander  Hulings  was  convinced  that 
it  was  true.  His  momentary  confidence,  vigor,  receded  be 
fore  the  piling  adversities,  bent  apparently  upon  his  de 
struction. 

"  Yes,  his  body  is  coming  up  now.  All  we  know  is,  a 
watchman  saw  him  standing  at  a  window  of  the  Wood- 
drop  Mills  after  hours,  and  shot  him  for  trespassing  — 
spying  on  their  process." 

[218] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

Alexander's  first  thought  was  not  of  the  man  just  killed, 
but  of  old  Conrad,  longer  dead.  He  had  been  a  faithful, 
an  invaluable  assistant;  without  him  Hulings  would  never 
have  risen.  And  now  he  had  been  the  cause  of  his  son's 
death!  A  sharp  regret  seized  him,  but  he  grew  rapidly 
calm  before  the  excitement  of  the  inferior  before  him. 

"  Keep  this  quiet  for  the  moment,"  he  commanded. 

"Quiet!"  the  other  cried.  "It's  already  known  all 
over  the  mountains.  Wishon's  workmen  have  quit  coal 
ing.  They  swear  they  will  get  Wooddrop's  superinten 
dent  and  hang  him." 

"Where  are  they?"  Hulings  demanded. 

The  other  became  sullen,  uncommunicative.  "  We 
want  to  pay  them  for  this,"  he  muttered.  "  No  better 
man  lived  than  Wishon." 

Alexander  at  once  told  his  wife  of  the  accident.  She 
was  still  surprisingly  contained,  though  pale.  "  Our  men 
must  be  controlled,"  she  asserted.  "  No  further  horrors !  " 

Her  attitude,  he  thought,  was  exactly  right;  it  was 
neither  callous  nor  hysterical.  He  was  willing  to  assume 
the  burden  of  his  responsibilities.  It  was  an  ugly,  a  re 
grettable  occurrence;  but  men  had  been  killed  in  his  em 
ploy  before  —  not  a  week  passed  without  an  accident,  and 
if  he  lost  his  head  in  a  welter  of  sentimentality  he  might 
as  well  shut  down  at  once.  Some  men  lived,  struggled 
upward.  It  was  a  primary  part  of  the  business  of  suc 
cess  to  keep  alive. 

Gisela  had  correctly  found  the  real  danger  of  their 

position  —  the  thing  must  go  no  further.     The  sky  had 

clouded  and  a  cold  rain  commenced  to  fall.     He  could, 

however,  pay  no  attention  to  the  weather;  he  rose  from  a 

[219] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

partial  dinner  and  departed  on  a  score  of  complicated  and 
difficult  errands.  But  his  main  concern,  to  locate  and 
dominate  the  mobbing  charcoal  burners,  evaded  his  strain 
ing  efforts.  He  caught  rumors,  echoed  threats;  once  he 
almost  overtook  them,  yet,  with  scouts  placed,  they  avoided 
him. 

He  sent  an  urgent  message  to  John  Wooddrop,  and,  un 
certain  of  its  delivery,  himself  drove  in  search  of  the 
former;  but  Wooddrop  was  out  somewhere  in  his  wide 
holdings;  the  superintendent  could  not  be  located.  A 
sense  of  an  implacable  fatality  hung  over  him;  every 
chance  turned  against  him,  mocked  the  insecurity  of  his 
boasted  position,  deepened  the  abyss  waiting  for  his  in 
evitable  fall. 

He  returned  finally,  baffled  and  weary,  to  his  house;  yet 
still  tense  with  the  spirit  of  angry  combat.  A  species  of 
fatalism  now  enveloped  him  in  the  conviction  that  he 
had  reached  the  zenith  of  his  misfortunes;  if  he  could  sur 
vive  the  present  day A  stableman  met  him  at  the 

veranda. 

"  Mrs.  Hulings  has  gone,"  the  servant  told  him.  "  A 
man  came  looking  for  you.  It  seems  they  had  Wood- 
drop's  manager  back  in  the  Mills  tract  and  were  going  to 
string  him  up.  But  you  couldn't  be  found.  Mrs.  Hul 
ings,  she  went  to  stop  it." 

An  inky  cloud  floated  nauseously  before  his  eyes  —  not 
himself  alone,  but  Gisela,  dragged  into  the  dark  whirl 
pool  gathered  about  his  destiny!  He  was  momentarily 
stunned,  with  twitching  hands  and  a  riven,  haggard  face, 
remembering  the  sodden  brutality  of  the  men  he  had  seen 

[220] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

in  the  smoke  of  charring,  isolated  stacks;  and  then  a 
sharp  energy  seized  him. 

"How  long  back?"  Hulings  demanded. 

"  An  hour  or  more,  perhaps  a  couple." 

Alexander  raged  at  the  mischance  that  had  sent  Gisela 
on  such  an  errand.  Nothing,  he  felt,  with  Wooddrop's 
manager  secured,  would  halt  the  charcoal  burners'  re 
venge  of  Wishon's  death.  The  rain  now  beat  down  in 
a  heavy  diagonal  pour  and  twilight  was  gathering. 

"We  must  go  at  once  for  Mrs.  Hulings,"  he  said.  Then 
he  saw  Gisela  approaching,  accompanied  by  a  small  knot 
of  men.  She  walked  directly  up  to  him,  her  crinoline 
soggy  with  rain,  her  hair  plastered  on  her  brow;  but  her 
deathly  pallor  drove  all  else  from  his  observation.  She 
shuddered  slowly,  her  skirt  dripping  ceaselessly  about  her 
on  the  sod. 

"  I  was  too  late!  "  she  said  in  a  dull  voice.  "  They 
had  done  it!  "  She  covered  her  eyes,  moved  back  from 
the  men  beside  her,  from  him.  "  Swinging  a  little  .  .  . 
all  alone!  So  sudden  —  there,  before  me!"  A  violent 
shivering  seized  her. 

"  Come,"  Alexander  Hulings  said  hoarsely;  "  you  must 
get  out  of  the  wet.  Warm  things.  Immediately !  " 

He  called  imperatively  for  Gisela's  maid,  and  together 
they  assisted  her  up  to  her  room.  There  Gisela  had  a 
long,  violent  chill;  and  he  sent  a  wagon  for  the  doctor  at 
Harmony. 

The  doctor  arrived,  disappeared  above;  but,  half  an 
hour  later,  he  would  say  little.  Alexander  Hulings  com 
manded  him  to  remain  in  the  house.  The  lines  deepened 
momentarily  on  the  former's  countenance;  he  saw  himself 

[221] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

unexpectedly  in  a  shadowy  pier  glass,  and  stood  for  a 
long  while  subconsciously  surveying  the  lean,  grizzled 
countenance  that  followed  his  gaze  out  of  the  immaterial 
depths.  "  Alexander  Hulings,"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  tor 
mented  mockery;  "  the  master  of  —  of  life!  " 

He  was  busy  with  the  local  marshal  when  the  doctor 
summoned  him  from  the  office. 

"  Your  wife,"  the  other  curtly  informed  him,  "  has  de 
veloped  pneumonia." 

Hulings  steadied  himself  with  a  hand  against  a  wall. 

"  Pneumonia !  "  he  repeated,  to  no  one  in  particular. 
"  Send  again  for  John  Wooddrop." 

He  was  seated,  a  narrow,  rigid  figure,  waiting  for  the 
older  man,  in  the  midst  of  gorgeous  upholstery.  Two 
facts  hammered  with  equal  persistence  on  his  numbed 
brain:  one  that  all  his  projects,  his  dream  of  power,  of 
iron,  now  approached  ruin,  and  the  other  that  Gisela  had 
pneumonia.  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  that  she  had  come 
on  in  the  Mills  tract!  The  Columbus  System  must 
triumphantly  absorb  all  that  he  had,  that  he  was  to  be. 
Gisela  had  been  chilled  to  the  bone;  pneumonia!  It  be 
came  difficult  and  then  impossible  to  distinguish  one  from 
the  other  —  Gisela  and  the  iron  were  inexplicably  welded 
in  the  poised  catastrophe  of  his  ambition. 

Alexander  Hulings  rose,  his  thin  lips  pinched,  his  eyes 
mere  sparks,  his  body  tense,  as  if  he  were  confronting 
the  embodied  force  that  had  checked  him.  He  stood 
upright,  so  still  that  he  might  have  been  cast  in  the  metal 
that  had  formed  his  vision  of  power,  holding  an  unquail- 
ing  mien.  His  inextinguishable  pride  cloaked  him  in  a 
final  contempt  for  all  that  life,  that  fate,  might  do.  Then 

[222] 


TUBAL    CAIN 

his  rigidity  was  assaulted  by  John  Wooddrop's  heavy  and 
hurried  entrance  into  the  room. 

Rulings  briefly  repeated  the  doctor's  pronouncement. 
Wooddrop's  face  was  darkly  pouched,  his  unremoved 
hat  a  mere  wet  film,  and  he  left  muddy  exact  footprints 
wherever  he  stepped  on  the  velvet  carpet. 

"  By  heaven !  "  he  quavered,  his  arms  upraised.  "  If 

between  us  we  have  killed  her "  His  voice  abruptly 

expired. 

As  Alexander  Hulings  watched  him  the  old  man's 
countenance  grew  livid,  his  jaw  dropped;  he  was  at  the 
point  of  falling.  He  gasped,  his  hands  beating  the  air; 
then  the  unnatural  color  receded,  words  became  distin 
guishable:  "Gisela!  .  .  .  I'd  never  forgive !  Hellish!" 
It  was  as  if  Death  had  touched  John  Wooddrop  on  the 
shoulder,  dragging  a  scarifying  hand  across  his  face,  and 
then  briefly,  capriciously  withdrawn. 

"  Hulings!  Hulings,"  he  articulated,  sinking  weakly 
on  a  chair,  "  we  must  save  her.  And,  anyhow,  God 
knows  we  were  blind! "  He  peered  out  of  suffused 
rheumy  eyes  at  Alexander,  appalling  in  his  sudden  dis 
integration  under  shock  and  the  weight  of  his  years. 
"  I'm  done!  "  he  said  tremulously.  "  And  there's  a  good 
bit  to  see  to  —  patent  lawyer  tomorrow,  and  English  ship 
ments.  Swore  I'd  keep  you  from  it,"  he  held  out  a  hand; 
"  but  there's  Gisela,  brought  down  between  us  now,  and 
—  and  iron's  colder  than  a  daughter,  a  wife.  We'd  best 
cover  up  the  past  quick  as  we  can !  " 

At  the  instant  of  grasping  John  Wooddrop's  hand  Alex 
ander  Hulings'  inchoate  emotion  shifted  to  a  vast  real 
ization,  blotting  out  all  else  from  his  mind.  In  the  con- 

[223] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

trol  of  the  immense  Wooddrop  resources  he  was  beyond, 
above,  all  competition,  all  danger.  What  he  had  fought 
for,  persistently  dreamed,  had  at  last  come  about  —  he 
was  the  greatest  Ironmaster  of  the  state! 


[224] 


THE  DARK  FLEECE 


THE  house  in  old  Cottarsport  in  which  Olive 
Stanes  lived  was  set  midway  on  the  steepness 
of  Orange  Street.  It  was  a  low  dwelling  of 
weathered  boards  holding  close  to  the  rocky  soil,  resem 
bling,  like  practically  all  the  Cottarsport  buildings,  the 
salt  weed  clinging  to  the  seaward  rocks  of  the  harbor; 
and  Orange  Street,  narrow,  without  walks  and  dipping 
into  cuplike  depressions,  was  a  type  of  almost  all  the 
streets.  The  Stanes  house  was  built  with  its  gable  to 
the  public  way;  the  length  faced  a  granite  shoulder  thrust 
up  through  the  spare  earth,  a  tall,  weedy  disorder  of 
golden  glow,  and  the  sedgy  incline  to  the  habitation 
above. 

When  Hester  and  Jem  and  then  Rhoda  were  little  they 
had  had  great  joy  of  the  boulder  in  the  side  yard:  at 
first  impossible  and  then  difficult  of  accomplishment, 
they  had  rapidly  grown  into  a  complete  mastery  of  its 
potentialities  as  a  fort,  a  mansion  impressive  as  that  of 
the  Canderays'  on  Regent  Street,  and  a  ship  under  the 
dangerous  shore  of  the  Feejees.  Olive,  the  solitary  child 
of  Ira  Stanes*  first  marriage,  had  had  no  such  reckless 
pleasure  from  the  rock 

She  had  been,  she  realized,  standing  in  the  narrow 
[227] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

portico  that  commanded  by  two  steps  the  uneven  flagging 
from  the  street,  a  very  careful,  yes,  considerate,  child  when 
measured  by  the  gay  irresponsibility  of  her  half  brother 
and  sisters.  Money  had  been  no  more  plentiful  in  the 
Stanes  family,  nor  in  all  Cottarsport,  then  than  now;  her 
dresses  had  been  few,  she  had  been  told  not  to  soil  or 
tear  them,  and  she  had  rigorously  attended  the  instruc 
tion. 

The  second  Mrs.  Stanes,  otherwise  an  admirable  wife 
and  mother,  had,  to  Olive's  young  disapproval,  rather  en 
couraged  a  boisterous  conduct  in  her  children  which 
overlooked  a  complete  cleanliness  or  tidy  array.  And 
when  she,  like  her  predecessor,  had  died,  and  left  Olive, 
at  twenty-three  to  assume  full  maternal  responsibilities, 
that  serious  vicarious  parent  had  entered  into  an  in 
evitable  and  largely  unavailing  struggle  against  the  minor 
damage  caused  mostly  by  the  activities  about  the  boulder. 

Now  Hester  and  Rhoda  had  left  behind  such  purely 
imaginative  games,  -and  Jem  was  away  fishing  on  the 
Georges  Bank;  her  duty  and  worries  had  shifted,  but 
not  lessened;  while  the  rock  remained  precisely  as  it  had 
been  through  the  children's  growth,  as  it  had  appeared  in 
her  own  earliest  memories,  as  it  was  before  ever  the 
Stanes  dwelling,  now  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  in  place, 
or  old  Cottarsport  itself,  had  been  dreamed  of.  Her 
thoughts  were  mixed :  at  once  they  created  a  vague  parallel 
between  the  granite  in  the  side  yard  and  herself,  Olive 
Stanes  —  they  both  seemed  to  have  been  so  long  in  one 
spot,  so  unchanged;  and  they  dwelt  on  the  fact  that 
soon  —  as  soon  as  Jason  Burrage  got  home  —  she  must 
be  utterly  different. 

[228] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

Jason  had  written  her  that,  if  they  cared  to,  they 
could  build  a  house  as  large  as  the  Canderays'.  Under 
the  circumstances  she  had  been  obliged  to  look  on  that 
as,  perhaps,  an  excusable  exaggeration,  but  she  instinc 
tively  condemned  the  dereliction  of  the  truth;  yet,  more 
than  any  other  figure  could  possibly  have  done,  it  im 
pressed  upon  her,  from  the  boldness  of  the  imagery,  that 
Jason  had  succeeded  in  finding  the  gold  for  which  he 
had  gone  in  search  nine  years  before.  He  was  coming 
back,  soon,  rich. 

The  other  important  fact  reiterated  in  his  last  letter, 
that  in  all  his  absent  years  of  struggle  he  had  never  fal 
tered  in  his  purpose  of  coming  to  her  with  any  fortune 
he  might  chance  to  get,  she  regarded  with  scant  thought. 
It  had  not  occurred  to  Olive  that  Jason  Burrage  would 
do  anything  else ;  her  only  concern  had  been  that  he  might 
be  killed;  otherwise  he  had  said  that  he  loved  her,  and 
that  they  were  to  marry  when  he  returned. 

She  hadn't,  really,  been  in  favor  of  his  going.  The 
Burrages,  measured  by  Cottarsport  standards,  were  com 
fortably  situated,  Mr.  Burrage's  packing  warehouse  and 
employment  in  dried  fish  were  locally  called  successful; 
but  Jason  had  never  been  satisfied  with  familiar  values; 
he  had  always  exclaimed  against  the  narrowness  of  his 
local  circumstance,  and  restlessly  reached  toward  greater 
possessions  and  a  wider  horizon.  This  dissatisfaction 
Olive  had  thought  wicked,  in  that  it  had  seemed  to 
criticize  the  omnipotent  and  far-seeing  wisdom  of  the 
Eternal;  it  had  caused  her  much  unhappiness  and  prayer, 
she  had  talked  very  earnestly  to  Jason  about  his  stub 
born  spirit,  but  it  had  persisted  in  him,  and  at  last 

[229] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

carried  him  west  in  the  first  madness  of  the  discovery 
of  gold  in  a  California  river. 

Olive,  at  times,  had  thought  that  Jason's  revolt  had 
been  brought  about  by  the  visible  example  of  the  worldly 
pomp  of  the  Canderays  —  of  their  great  white  house 
with  the  balustraded  captain's  walk  on  the  gambreled 
roof,  their  chaise,  and  equable  but  slightly  disconcerting 
courtesy.  But  she  had  been  obliged  to  admit  that,  after 
all  was  said,  Jason's  bearing  was  the  result  of  his  own 
fretful  heart. 

He  had  always  been  different  from  the  other  Cottars- 
port  youths  and  men :  while  they  were  commonly  long  and 
bony,  and  awkwardly  hung  together,  thickly  tanned  by 
the  winds  and  sun  and  spray  of  the  sea,  Jason  was 
small,  compact,  with  dead  black  hair  and  pale  skin. 
Mr.  Burrage  was  the  usual  Cottarsport  old  man,  he 
resembled  a  worn  and  discolored  piece  of  drift-wood; 
but,  while  his  wife  was  not  conspicuously  out  of  the 
ordinary,  still  there  ,was  a  snap  in  her  unfading  eyes,  a 
ruddy  roundness  of  cheek,  that  showed  a  lingering  trace  of 
a  French  Acadian  intermarriage  a  century  and  more  ago. 

Olive  always  regarded  with  something  like  surprise  her 
unquestioned  love  for  Jason.  It  had  grown  quietly,  un 
known  to  her,  through  a  number  of  preliminary  years 
in  which  she  had  felt  that  she  must  exert  some  influence 
for  his  good.  He  frightened  her  a  little  by  his  hot  ut 
terances  and  by  the  manner  in  which  his  soul  shivered 
on  the  verge  of  a  righteous  damnation.  The  effort  to 
preserve  him  from  such  destruction  became  intenser  and 
more  involved;  until  suddenly,  to  her  after  consternation, 
she  had  surrendered  her  lips  in  a  single,  binding  kiss. 

[230] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

But  with  that  consummation  a  great  deal  of  her  trou 
bling  had  ceased;  spiritual  vision,  she  had  been  certain, 
must  follow  their  sacred  union  and  subsequent  life. 
Even  the  gold  agitation  and  Jason's  departure  for  Boston 
and  the  western  wild  had  not  given  her  especial  concern. 
God  was  the  supreme  Master  of  human  fate,  and  if  He 
willed  for  Jason  to  go  forth  who  was  she,  Olive  Stanes, 
to  make  a  to-do?  She  had  quietly  addressed  herself  to 
the  task  of  Hester,  Jem  and  Rhoda,  to  the  ordering  of 
her  father's  household  —  he  was  mostly  away  on  the 
sea  and  a  solitary  man  at  home  —  and  the  formal  re 
currence  of  the  occasions  of  the  church. 

In  such  ways,  she  thought,  bathed  in  the  keen,  pale 
red  glow  of  a  late  afternoon  in  October,  her  youth  had 
slipped  imperceptibly  away. 

II 

A  strong  salt  wind  dipped  into  the  hollow,  and  plastered 
her  skirt,  without  hoops,  against  her  erect,  thin  person. 
With  the  instinct,  bred  by  the  sea,  of  the  presence  in  all 
calculations  of  the  weather,  she  mechanically  dwelt  on  its 
force  and  direction,  wrinkling  her  forehead  and  pinching 
her  lips  —  she  could  hear  the  rising  wind  straining 
through  the  elms  on  the  hills  behind  Cottarsport — and 
then  she  turned  abruptly  and  entered  the  house. 

There  was  a  small  dark  hallway  within,  a  narrow 
flight  of  stairs  leading  sharply  up;  the  door  on  the  right, 
to  the  formal  chamber,  was  closed;  but  at  the  left  an 
interior  of  somber,  scrubbed  wood  was  visible.  On  the 
side  against  the  hall  a  cavernous  fire-place,  with  a  brick 
[231] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

hearth,  blackened  with  shadows  and  the  soot  of  ancient 
fires,  had  been  left  open,  but  held  an  air-tight,  sheet-iron 
stove.  The  windows,  high  on  the  walls,  were  small  and 
long,  rather  than  deep;  and  a  table,  perpetually  spread, 
stood  on  a  thick  hooked  rug  of  brilliant,  primitive  de 
sign. 

Rhoda,  in  a  creaking  birch  rocker,  was  singing  an  in- 
articulated  song  with  closed  eyes.  Her  voice  gave  both 
the  impression  of  being  subdued  and  filling  the  room 
with  a  vibrant  power.  She  had  a  mature  face  for  six 
teen  years,  vividly  colored  and  sensitive,  a  wide  mouth 
and  heavy  twists  of  russet  hair  with  metallic  lights.  The 
song  stopped  as  Olive  entered.  Rhoda  said: 

"  I  wish  Hester  would  hurry  home;  I'm  dreadful 
hungry." 

"  Sometimes  they  keep  her  at  the  packing  house,  espe 
cially  if  there's  a  boat  in  late  and  extra  work." 

"  It's  not  very  smart  of  her  without  being  paid  more. 
They'll  just  put  anything  on  you  they  can  in  this  stingy 
place.  I  can  tell  you  I  wouldn't  do  two  men's  work  for 
a  woman's  pay.  I'm  awful  glad  Jason's  coming  back 
soon,  Olive,  with  all  that  money,  and  I  can  go  to  Boston 
and  study  singing." 

"  I've  said  over  and  over,  Rhoda,"  Olive  replied  pa 
tiently,  "  that  you  mustn't  think  and  talk  all  the  time 
about  Jason's  worldly  success.  It  doesn't  sound  nice, 
but  like  we  were  all  trying  to  get  everything  we  could 
out  of  him  before  ever  he's  here." 

"  Didn't  he  say  in  the  last  letter  that  I  was  to  go  to 
Boston!  "  Rhoda  exclaimed  impatiently.  "  Didn't  he  just 
up  and  tell  me  that!  Why,  with  all  the  gold  Jason's  got 

[232] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

it  won't  mean  anything  for  him  to  send  me  away.  It 
isn't  as  if  I  wouldn't  pay  you  all  back  for  the  trouble 
I've  been.  I  know  I  can  sing,  and  I'll  work  harder 
than  ever  Hester  dreamed  of " 

As  if  materialized  by  the  pronouncement  of  her  name 
the  latter  entered  the  room.  "  Gracious,  Hester,"  Rhoda 
declared  distastefully,  making  a  nose,  "you  smell  of 
dead  haddock  right  this  minute."  The  former,  unlike 
Rhoda's  softly  rounded  proportions,  was  more  bony  than 
Olive,  infinitely  more  colorless,  although  ten  years  the 
younger.  She  had  a  black  worsted  scarf  over  her  drab 
head  in  place  of  a  hat,  its  ends  wrapped  about  her  meager 
shoulders  and  bombazine  waist.  Without  preliminary  she 
dropped  into  her  place  at  the  supper  table,  the  shawl 
trailing  on  the  broad,  uneven  boards  of  the  floor. 

"  The  wind's  smartening  up  on  the  bay,"  she  told  them. 
"  Captain  Eagleston  looks  for  half  a  blow.  It  has  got 
cold,  too.  I  wish  the  tea'd  be  ready  when  I  get  in 
from  the  packing  house.  It  seems  that  much  could  be 
done  with  Olive  only  sitting  around  and  Rhoda  singing 
to  herself  in  the  mirror  on  her  dresser." 

"  It'll  draw  in  a  minute  more,"  Olive  said  in  the  door 
from  the  kitchen,  beyond  the  fireplace.  Rhoda  smiled 
cheerfully. 

"  I  suppose,"  Hester  went  on,  in  a  voice  without  em 
phasis,  but  which  yet  contrived  to  be  thinly  bitter,  "  you 
were  all  talking  about  what  would  happen  when  Jason 
came  home  with  that  fortune  of  his.  Far  as  I  can  see 
he's  promised  and  provided  for  everybody,  Jem  and 
Rhoda  and  his  parents  and  Olive,  every  Tom  and  Noddy, 
but  me." 

[233] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

"  I  don't  like  to  keep  on  about  it,"  Olive  protested, 
pained.  "  Yet  you  can't  see,  Hester,  how  independent 
you  are.  A  person  wouldn't  like  to  offer  you  anything 
until  you  had  signified.  You  were  never  very  nice  with 
Jason  anyway." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  be  nicer  after  he's  back  with 
gold  in  his  pocket.  I  guess  he'll  find  I'm  not  hanging 
on  his  shoulder  for  a  cashmere  dress  or  a  trip  to 
Boston." 

"  Pa  ought  to  get  into  Salem  soon,"  Rhoda  observed. 
"  He  said  after  this  he  wasn't  going  to  ship  again, 
even  along  the  coast,  but  tally  fish  for  Mr.  Burrage. 
Pa's  getting  old." 

"  And  Jem'll  be  home  from  the  Georges,  too,"  Olive 
added,  seating  herself  with  the  tea.  "  I  do  hope  he  won't 
sign  for  China  or  any  of  those  long  voyages  like  he 
threatened." 

"  He  won't  get  so  far  away  from  Jason,"  Hester 
stated. 

"  I  saw  Honora  Canderay  today,"  Rhoda  informed 
them.  "  She  wasn't  in  the  chaise,  but  walking  past  the 
courthouse.  She  had  on  a  small  bonnet  with  flowers  in 
side  the  brim  and  skimpy  hoops,  gallooned  and  scal 
loped." 

"  Did  she  stop  ?  "  Olive  inquired. 

"  Yes,  and  said  I  was  as  bright  as  a  fall  maple  leaf. 
I  wish  I  could  look  like  Honora  Canderay " 

"  Wait  till  Jason's  back,"  Hester  interrupted. 

"It  isn't  her  clothes,"  Rhoda  went  on;  "they're  ele 
gant  material,  of  course,  but  not  the  colors  I'd  choose;  nor 
it  isn't  her  looks,  either,  no  one  would  say  she's  down- 

[234] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

right  pretty;  it's  just  —  just  her.  Is  she  as  old  as  you, 
Olive?" 

"Let's  see,  I'm  thirty-six,  and  Honora  Canderay  was 
.  .  .  she's  near  as  old,  a  year  younger  maybe." 

"  She  is  wonderful  to  get  close  to,"  said  Rhoda,  "  no 
cologne  and  yet  a  lovely  kind  of  smell " 

"  Not  like  dead  haddock,"  this  was  Hester  again. 

"  Do  you  know,"  proceeded  the  younger,  "  she  seemed 
to  me  kind  of  lonely.  I  wanted  to  give  her  a  hug,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  for  all  the  gold  in  California.  I  can't  make 
out  if  she  is  freezing  outside  and  nice  in,  or  just  polite 
and  thinks  nobody's  good  enough  for  her.  She  had  an 
India  shawl  as  big  as  a  sail,  with  palm  leaf  ends,  and  — " 

"  Rhoda,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  put  so  much  on  clothes 
and  such  corruption,"  Olive  spoke  firmly,  with  a  light 
of  zeal  in  her  gaze.  "  Can't  you  think  on  the  eterni 
ties?" 

"  Like  Jason  Burrage  and  Honora  Canderay,"  ex 
plained  Hester;  "  Honora  Canderay  and  Jason  Burrage. 
They're  eternities  if  there  ever  were  any.  If  it  isn't  one 
it's  bound  to  be  the  other." 

Ill 

Olive's  room  had  a  sloping  outer  wall  and  casually 
placed  insufficient  windows;  her  bed,  with  a  blue-white 
quilt,  was  supported  by  heavy  maple  posts;  there  were 
a  chest  of  drawers,  with  a  minute  mirror  stand,  a  utilitar 
ian  wash-pitcher  and  basin,  a  hanging  for  the  protection 
of  her  clothes,  and  uncompromising  chairs.  A  small  cir 
cular  table  with  a  tatted  cover  held  her  Bible  and  a  de- 

[235] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

votional  book,  "  The  Family  Companion,"  by  a  Pastor. 
It  was  cold  when  she  went  up  to  bed;  with  a  desire  to 
linger  in  her  preparations,  she  put  some  resinous  sticks 
of  wood  into  a  sheet-iron  stove,  and  almost  immediately 
there  was  a  busily  exploding  combustion.  A  glass  lamp 
on  the  chest  of  drawers  shed  a  pale  illumination  that 
failed  to  reach  the  confines  of  the  room;  and,  for  a  while, 
she  moved  in  and  out  of  its  wan  influence. 

She  was  thinking  fixedly  about  Jason  Burrage,  and 
the  great  impending  change  in  her  condition,  not  in  its 
worldly  implications  —  she  thought  mostly  of  material 
values  in  the  spirit  of  her  admonitions  to  Rhoda  —  but 
in  its  personal  and  inner  force.  At  times  a  pale  question 
of  her  aptitude  for  marriage  disturbed  her  serenity;  at 
times  she  saw  it  as  a  sacrifice  of  her  being  to  a  condition 
commanded  of  God,  a  species  of  martyrdom  even.  The 
nine  years  of  Jason's  absence  had  fixed  certain  maidenly 
habits  of  privacy,  the  mold  of  her  life  had  taken  a 
definite  cast.  Her  existence  had  its  routine,  the  recur 
rence  of  Sunday,  its  contemplations,  duties  and  heavenly 
aim.  And,  lately,  Jason's  letters  had  disturbed  her. 

They  seemed  filled  with  an  almost  wicked  pride  and  a 
disconcerting  energy;  he  spoke  of  things  instinctively  dis 
tressing  to  her;  there  were  hints  of  rude,  Godless  force 
and  gaiety  —  allusions  to  the  Jenny  Lind  Theatre,  the 
El  Dorado,  which  she  apprehended  as  a  name  of  evil 
import,  and  to  the  excursions  they  would  make  to  Boston 
or  as  far  as  New  York. 

Jason,  too,  she  realized,  must  have  developed;  and 
California,  she  feared,  might  have  emphasized  exactly 
such  traits  as  she  would  wish  suppressed.  The  power 

[236] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

of  self-destruction  in  the  human  heart  she  believed  im 
measurable.  All,  all,  must  throw  themselves  in  abject 
humility  upward  upon  the  Rock  of  Salvation.  And  she 
could  find  nothing  humble  in  Jason's  periods,  burdened 
as  they  were  with  a  patent  satisfaction  in  the  success  of 
his  venture. 

Yet  parallel  with  this  was  a  gladness  that  he  had 
triumphed,  and  that  he  was  coming  back  to  Cottarsport 
a  figure  of  importance.  She  could  measure  that  by  the 
attitude  of  their  town,  by  the  number  and  standing  of 
the  people  who  cordially  stopped  her  on  the  street  for 
the  purposes  of  congratulation  and  curiosity.  Everyone, 
of  course,  had  known  of  their  engagement,  there  had  been 
a  marked  interest  when  Jason  and  a  fellow  townsman, 
Thomas  Gast,  had  departed;  but  that  would  be  in 
significant  compared  to  the  permanent  bulk  Jason  must 
now  assume.  Why,  he  would  be  with  the  Canderays, 
Cottarsport's  most  considerable  people. 

As  always,  at  the  merest  thought  of  the  Canderays, 
personal  facts  were  suspended  for  a  mental  glance  at 
that  apart  family.  There  was  no  sense  of  inferiority 
in  Olive's  mind,  but  an  instinctive  feeling  of  difference. 
This  wasn't  the  result  of  their  big  house,  nor  because 
the  Captain's  wife  had  been  a  member  of  Boston  society, 
but  from  the  contrariness  in  the  family  itself,  now  cen 
tered  in  Honora,  the  only  one  alive. 

Perhaps  Honora's  diversity  lay  in  the  fact  that,  while 
she  seldom  actually  left  Cottarsport,  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  she  had  a  part  in  a  life  far  beyond  anything  Olive, 
whose  consciousness  was  strictly  limited  to  one  narrow 
place,  knew.  She  always  suggested  a  wider  and  more 

[237] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

elegantly  finished  existence  than  that  of  local  sociables 
and  church  activities.  Captain  Ithiel  Canderay,  a  mem 
ber  of  a  Cottarsport  family  long  since  moved  away,  had, 
from  obscure  surprising  promptings,  returned  at  his  suc 
cessful  retirement  from  the  sea,  and  built  his  impressive 
dwelling  in  the  grey  community.  He  had  always,  how 
ever  different  the  tradition  of  his  wife's  attitude,  entered 
with  a  candid  spirit  into  the  interests  and  life  of  the 
town,  where  he  had  inspired  solid  confidence  in  a  domi 
neering  but  unimpeachable  integrity.  Such  small  civic 
honors  as  the  locality  had  to  bestow  were  his,  and  were 
discharged  to  the  last  and  most  exacting  degree.  But 
there  had  been  perpetually  about  him  the  aloof  air  of  the 
quarter-deck,  his  tones  had  never  lost  the  accent  of  com 
mand,  and,  while  Cottarsport  bitterly  guarded  its  per 
sonal  equality  and  independence,  it  took  a  certain  pride 
in  recognition  of  the  Captain's  authority. 

Something  of  this  had  unquestionably  descended  upon 
Honora,  her  position  was  made  and  zealously  guarded  by 
the  town.  Yet  that  alone  failed  to  hold  the  reason  for 
Olive's  feeling;  it  was  at  once  more  particular  and  more 
all-embracing,  and  largely  feminine.  She  was  almost 
contemptuous  of  the  other's  delicacy  of  person,  of  the 
celebrated  facts  that  Honora  Canderay  never  turned  her 
hand  to  the  cooking  of  a  dish  nor  the  sweeping  of  a  stair; 
and  at  the  same  time  these  very  things  lifted  her  apart 
from  Olive's  commonplace  round. 

Her  mind  turned  again  to  herself  and  Jason's  home 
coming.  He  had  been  wonderfully  generous  in  his  writ 
ten  promises  to  Rhoda  and  Jem;  and  he  would  be  equally 
thoughtful  of  Hester,  she  was  certain  of  that.  People 

[238] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

had  a  way  of  overlooking  Hester,  a  faithful  and,  for  all 
her  talk,  a  Christian  character.  Rhoda  would  study  to  be 
a  singer;  striving,  Olive  hoped,  to  put  what  talent  she  had 
to  a  sanctioned  use;  and  Jem,  a  remarkably  vigorous  and 
able  boy  of  eighteen,  would  command  his  own  fishing 
schooner. 

The  sheet-iron  stove  glowed  cherry  red  with  the  energy 
of  its  heat,  and  a  blast  of  wind  rushed  against  the  win 
dows.  The  latter,  she  recognized,  had  steadily  grown  in 
force;  and  Olive  thought  of  her  father  in  the  barque 
Emerald  of  Salem,  somewhere  between  Richmond  and  the 
home  port  .  .  .  The  lamplight  swelled  and  diminished. 

She  got  a  new  pleasure  from  the  conjunction  of  her  sur 
render  to  matrimony  and  the  good  it  would  bring  the 
others;  that — self-sacrifice  —  was  excellence;  such  sub 
jection  of  the  pride  of  the  flesh  was  the  essence  of  her 
service.  Then  some  mundane  affairs  invaded  her  mind  — 
a  wedding  dress,  the  preparation  of  food  for  a  small  com 
pany  after  the  ceremony,  whether  she  would  like  having 
a  servant  —  Jason  would  insist  on  that  —  and  decided  in 
the  negative.  She  wouldn't  be  put  upon  in  her  own 
kitchen. 

Her  arrangements  for  the  night  were  complete,  and  she 
set  the  stove  door  slightly  open,  shivering  in  her  coarse 
night  dress  before  the  icy  cold  drifts  of  wind  in  the  room, 
extinguished  the  lamp,  and,  after  long,  conscientiously  de 
liberate  prayers,  got  into  bed.  The  wind  boomed  about 
the  house,  rattling  all  the  sashes.  Its  force  now  seemed  to 
be  buffeting  her  heart  until  she  got  a  measure  of  release 
from  the  thought  of  the  granite  boulder  in  the  side  yard, 
changeless  and  immovable. 

[239] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 


IV 

The  morning  was  gusty,  with  a  coldly  blue  and 
cloudless  sky.  Olive,  reaching  the  top  of  Orange 
Street,  was  whipped  with  dust,  her  hoops  flattened 
grotesquely  against  her  body.  The  town  fell  away 
on  either  hand,  lying  in  a  half  moon  on  its  harbor. 
The  latter,  as  blue  and  bright  as  the  sky,  was  formed  by 
the  rocky  arm  of  Cottar's  Neck,  thrust  out  into  the  sea  and 
bent  from  right  to  left.  Most  of  the  fishing  fleet  showed 
their  bare  spars  at  the  wharves,  but  one,  a  minute  fleck  of 
white  canvas,  was  beating  her  way  through  the  Narrows. 
She  wondered,  descending,  if  it  were  Jem  coming  home. 

Olive  was  going  to  the  Burrages';  it  was  possible  that 
they  had  had  a  later  letter  than  hers  from  Jason.  It 
might  be  he  would  arrive  that  very  day.  She  was  con 
scious  of  her  heart  throbbing  slightly  at  that  possibility, 
but  from  a  complexity  of  emotions  which  still  left  her  un 
easy  if  faintly  exhilarated.  She  crossed  the  courthouse 
square,  where  she  saw  that  the  green  grass  had  become 
brown,  apparently  over  night,  and  turned  into  Marlboro 
Street.  Here  the  houses  were  more  recent  than  the  Stanes', 
they  were  four  square,  with  a  full  second  story  —  a  series 
of  detached  white  blocks  with  flat  porticoes  —  each  set 
behind  a  wood  fence  in  a  lawn  with  flower  borders  or 
twisted  and  tree-like  lilacs. 

She  entered  the  Burrage  dwelling  without  the  formality 
of  knocking;  and,  familiar  with  the  household,  passed  di 
rectly  through  a  narrow,  darkened  hall,  on  which  all  the 
doors  were  closed,  to  the  dining  room  and  kitchen  beyond. 

[240] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

As  she  had  known  he  would  be,  Hazzard  Barrage  was 
seated  with  his  feet,  in  lamb's  wool  slippers,  thrust  under 
the  stove.  For  the  rest,  but  lacking  his  coat,  he  was 
formally  and  completely  dressed;  his  corded  throat  was 
folded  in  a  formal  black  stock,  a  watch  chain  and  seal 
hung  across  his  waistcoat.  Mrs.  Burrage  was  occupied 
in  lining  a  cupboard  with  fresh  shelf  paper  with  a  cut 
lace  border.  She  was  a  small  woman,  with  quick  exact 
movements  and  an  impatient  utterance;  but  her  husband 
was  slow  —  a  man  who  deliberately  studied  the  world  with 
a  deep-set  gaze. 

"  I  thought  you  might  have  heard,"  Olive  stated  di 
rectly,  on  the  edge  of  a  painted,  split-hickory  chair. 
They  hadn't,  Mrs.  Burrage  informed  her: 

"  I  expect  he'll  just  come  walking  in.  That's  the  way 
he  always  did  things,  and  I  guess  California,  or  any 
where  else,  won't  change  him  to  notice  it.  And  when  he 
does,"  she  continued,  "  he's  going  to  be  put  out  with  Haz 
zard.  I  told  you  Jason  sent  us  three  thousand  dollars 
to  get  the  front  of  the  house  fixed  up.  He  said  he  didn't 
want  to  find  his  father  sitting  in  the  kitchen  when  he  got 
back.  Jason  said  we  were  to  burn  three  or  four  stoves  all 
at  once.  But  he  won't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Why, 
he  just  put  the  money  in  the  bank  and  there  it  lies.  I 
read  him  the  parable  about  the  talents,  but  it  didn't  stir 
him  an  inch." 

"  Jason  always  was  quick  acting,"  Hazzard  Burrage 
declared,  "  he  never  stopped  to  consider;  and  it's  as  like 
as  not  he'll  need  that  money.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  if 
when  he  sat  down  and  counted  what  he  had  Jason'd  find  it 
was  less  than  he  thought." 

[241] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

"  He  wrote  me,"  Olive  stated,  "  that  we  could  build  a 
house  as  big  as  the  Canderays'." 

"  Jason  always  was  one  to  talk,"  Mrs.  Burrage  replied 
in  defense  of  her  son. 

Olive  moved  over  to  the  older  woman  and  held  the 
dishes  to  be  replaced  in  the  cupboard.  They  commented 
on  the  force  of  the  wind  throughout  the  night.  "  The  tail 
end  of  a  blow  at  sea,"  Burrage  told  them;  "  I  wouldn't 
wonder  but  it  reached  right  down  to  the  West  Indies." 

"  I  hope  he  brings  me  a  grey  satinet  pelerine  like  I 
wrote,"  said  Mrs.  Burrage.  She  was  obviously  flushed 
at  the  thought  of  the  possession  of  such  a  garment  —  a 
fact  which  Olive  felt,  at  the  other's  age,  to  be  inappro 
priate  to  the  not  distant  solemnity  of  the  Christian  ordeal 
of  death.  She  repeated  automatically:  ".  .  .  turn  from 
these  vanities  unto  the  living  God." 

She  rose,  "  I'll  let  you  know  if  I  hear  anything,  and 
anyhow  stop  in  tomorrow." 

Outside  sere  leaves  were  whirling  in  grey  funnels  of 
dust,  the  intense  blue  bay  sparkled  under  the  cobalt  sky; 
and,  leaving  Marlboro  Street  with  a  hand  on  her  bonnet, 
she  ran  directly  into  Honora  Canderay. 

"  Oh !  "  Olive  exclaimed,  breathless  and  slightly  con 
cerned.  "  Indeed  if  I  saw  you,  Honora;  the  wind  was 
that  strong  pulling  at  a  person." 

"  What  does  it  matter,"  Honora  replied.  She  was 
wrapped  from  throat  to  hem  in  a  cinnamon  colored  vel 
vet  cloak  that,  fluttering,  showed  a  lining  of  soft,  quilted 
yellow.  In  the  flood  of  morning  her  skin  was  flawless; 
her  delicate  lips  and  hazel  eyes  held  the  faint  mockery 
that  was  the  visible  sign  of  her  disturbing  quality.  She 

[242] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

laid  a  hand,  in  a  short,  furred  kid  glove,  on  Olive's  arm. 

"  I  am  so  pleased  about  Jason's  success,"  she  continued, 
in  a  clear  insistent  voice.  "  You  must  be  mad  with 
anxiety  to  have  him  back.  It's  the  most  romantic  thing 
in  the  world.  Aren't  you  thrilled  to  the  soul !  " 

"  I'm  glad  to  —  to  know  he's  been  preserved,"  Olive 
stammered,  confused  by  Honora's  frank  speech. 

"  You  sound  exactly  as  if  he  were  a  jar  of  quinces,"  the 
other  answered  impatiently ;  "  and  not  a  true  lover  coming 
back  from  California  with  bags  of  gold." 

Olive's  confusion  deepened  to  painful  embarrassment  at 
the  indelicate  term  lover.  She  wondered,  hotly  red,  how 
Honora  could  go  on  so,  and  made  a  motion  to  continue 
on  her  way.  But  the  other's  fingers  closed  and  held  her. 
"  I  wonder,  Olive,"  she  said  more  thoughtfully,  "  if  I 
know  you  well  enough,  if  you  will  allow  me,  to  give  you 
some  advice.  It  is  this  —  don't  be  too  rigid  with  Jason 
when  he  gets  back.  For  nearly  ten  years  he's  been  out  in 
a  life  very  different  from  Cottarsport,  and  he  must  have 
changed  in  that  time.  Here  we  stay  almost  the  same  — 
ten  or  twenty  or  fifty  years  is  nothing  really.  The  fishing 
boats  come  in,  they  may  have  different  names,  but  they 
are  the  same.  We  stop  and  talk,  Honora  Canderay  and 
Olive  Stanes,  and  years  before  and  years  later  women 
will  stand  here  and  do  the  same  with  beliefs  no  wider 
than  your  finger.  But  it  isn't  like  that  outside;  and 
Jason  will  have  that  advantage  of  us  —  things  really  very 
small,  but  which  have  always  seemed  tremendous  here, 
will  mean  no  more  to  him  than  they  are  worth.  He  will 
be  careless,  perhaps,  of  your  most  cherished  ideas;  and, 
if  you  are  to  meet  him  fairly,  you  must  try  to  see  through 

[243] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

his  eyjs  as  well  as  your  own.  Truly  I  want  you  to  be 
happy,  Olive;  I  want  everyone  in  Cottarsport  to  be  as 
happy  ...  as  he  can." 

Olive's  embarrassment  increased:  it  was  impossible  to 
know  what  Honora  Canderay  meant  by  her  last  words, 
in  that  echoing  voice.  Nevertheless,  her  independence  of 
spirit,  the  long  nourished  tenets  of  the  abhorrence  of 
sin,  asserted  themselves  in  the  face  of  even  Honora's  di 
rections.  "  I  trust/'  she  replied  stiffly,  "  that  Jason  has 

been  given  grace  to  walk  in  the  path  of  God "  She 

stopped  with  lips  parted,  her  breath  laboring  with  shock, 
at  the  interruption  pronounced  in  ringing  accents.  Hon 
ora  Canderay  said: 

"Grace  be  damned!" 

Olive  backed  away  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  cheeks. 
In  the  midst  of  her  shuddering  surprise  she  realized  how 
much  the  other  resembled  her  father,  the  captain. 

"  I  suppose,"  Honora  further  ventured,  "  that  you  are 
looking  for  a  bolt  of -lightning,  but  it  is  late  in  the  season 
for  that.  There  are  no  thunder  storms  to  speak  of  after 
September,"  she  turned  abruptly,  and  Olive  watched  her 
depart,  gracefully  swaying  against  the  wind. 


All  Olive's  unformed  opinions  and  attitude  concern 
ing  Honora  Canderay  crystallized  into  one  sharp,  in 
telligible  feeling  —  dislike.  The  breadth  of  being 
which  the  other  had  seemed  to  possess  was  now  re 
vealed  as  nothing  more  than  a  lack  of  reverence.  She  was 
inexpressibly  upset  by  Honora's  profanity,  the  blasphe- 

[244] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

mous  mind  it  exhibited,  her  attempted  glossing  of  sin.  It 
was  nothing  less.  In  the  assault  on  Olive's  most  funda 
mental  verities  —  the  contempt  which  she  divined  had 
been  offered  to  the  edifice  of  her  conscience  and  creed  — 
she  responded  blindly,  instinctively,  with  an  overwhelming 
condemnation.  At  the  same  time  she  was  frightened,  and 
hurried  away  from  the  proximity  of  such  unsanctified 
talk.  She  did  not  go  to  Citron  Street,  and  the  shops, 
as  she  had  intended;  but  kept  directly  on  until  she  found 
herself  at  the  harbor  and  wharves.  The  latter  serrated 
the  water's  edge,  projecting  from  the  relatively  tall,  bald 
warehouses,  reeking  with  the  odor  of  dead  fish,  cut  open 
and  laid  in  calt,  grey-white  areas  to  the  sun  and  wind. 

A  small  group  of  men,  with  flat  bronzed  countenances 
and  rough  furze  coats,  uneasily  stirred  their  hats,  in  the 
local  manner  of  saluting  women,  and  turned  to  gaze 
fixedly  at  her  as  she  passed.  Even  in  her  perturbation  of 
mind  she  was  conscious  of  their  unusual  scrutiny.  She 
couldn't,  now,  for  the  life  of  her,  recall  what  needed  to  be 
bought;  and,  mounting  the  narrow  uneven  way  from  the 
water,  she  proceeded  home. 

Some  towels,  laid  on  the  boulder  to  dry,  had  not  been 
sufficiently  weighted  and  hung  blown  and  crumpled  on  a 
lilac  bush.  These  she  collected,  rearranged,  complaining 
of  the  blindness  of  whoever  might  be  about  the  house,  and 
then  proceeded  within.  There,  to  her  amazement,  she 
found  Hester,  in  the  middle  of  the  morning,  and  Rhoda 
bent  over  the  dinner  table,  sobbing  into  her  arm.  Hester 
met  her  with  a  drawn  face  darkly  smudged  beneath  the 
eyes. 

"  The  Emerald  was  lost  off  the  Cape,"  she  said;  "  sunk 
[245] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

with  all  on  board.     A  man  came  over  from  Salem  to  tell 
us.     He  had  to  go  right  back.     Pa,  he's  lost." 

Olive  sank  into  a  chair  with  limp  hands.  Rhoda  con 
tinued  uninterrupted  her  sobbing,  while  Hester  went  on 
with  her  recital  in  a  thin,  blank  voice.  "  The  ship  /.  Q. 
Adams  stood  by  the  Emerald  but  there  was  such  a  sea 
running  she  couldn't  do  anything  else.  They  just  had  to 
see  the  Emerald,  with  the  men  in  the  rigging,  go  under. 
That's  what  he  said  who  was  here.  They  just  had  to  see 
Pa  drown  before  their  eyes.  .  .  .  The  wind  was  some 
thing  terrible." 

A  deep,  dry  sorrow  constricted  Olive's  heart.  Suddenly 
the  details  of  packing  her  father's  blue  sea  chest  returned 
to  her  mind  —  the  wool  socks  she  had  knitted  and  care 
fully  folded  in  the  bottom,  the  needles  and  emery  and 
thread  stowed  in  their  scarlet  bag,  the  tin  of  goose  grease 
for  his  throat,  the  Bible  that  had  been  shipped  so  often. 
She  thought  of  them  all  scattered  and  rent  in  the  wild 
sea,  of  her  father  — •— 

She  forced  herself  to  rise,  with  a  set  face,  and  put  her 
hand  on  Rhoda's  shoulder.  "  It's  right  to  mourn,  like 
Rachel,  but  don't  forget  the  majesty  of  God."  Rhoda 
shook  off  her  palm  and  continued  in  an  ecstasy  of  emo 
tional  relief.  Olive  hardened.  "  Get  up,"  she  com 
manded,  "  we  must  fix  things  here,  for  the  neighbors  and 
Pastor  will  be  in.  I  wish  Jem  were  back." 

At  this  Rhoda  became  even  more  unrestrained,  and 
Olive  remembered  that  Jem  too  was  at  sea,  and  that  prob 
ably  he  had  been  caught  in  the  same  gale.  "  He'll  be  all 
right,"  she  added  quickly,  "  the  fishing  boats  live  through 
everything." 

[246] 


THE    DARK     FLEECE 

Yet  she  was  infinitely  relieved  when,  two  days  later, 
Jem  arrived  safely  home.  He  came  into  the  house  with 
a  pounding  of  heavy  boots,  a  powerfully  built  youth  with 
a  rugged  jaw  and  an  intent  quiet  gaze.  "  I  heard  at  ths 
wharf,"  he  told  Olive.  They  were  in  the  kitchen,  and  he 
pulled  off  his  boots  and  set  them  away  from  the  stove. 

"  I'm  thankful  you're  so  steady  and  able,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  glad  Jason's  coming  home  —  rich,"  he  replied 
tersely.  Later,  after  supper,  while  they  still  sat  at  the 
table,  he  went  on,  "  There  is  a  fine  yawl  for  sale  at 
Ipswich,  sails  ain't  been  made  a  year,  fifty-five  tons;  I 
could  do  right  good  with  that.  The  fishing's  never  been 
better.  Do  you  think  Jason  would  be  content  to  buy  her, 
Olive?  I  could  pay  him  back  after  a  run  or  two." 

"  He  told  you  he'd  do  something  like  that,"  she  an 
swered.  "  I  guess  now  it  wouldn't  mean  much  to  him." 

"And  I'll  be  away,"  Rhoda  eagerly  added;  "you 
wouldn't  have  to  give  me  anything,  Jem.  Jason  prom 
ised  me,  too." 

An  unreasonable  and  disturbing  sense  of  insecurity  en 
veloped  Olive.  But,  of  course,  it  would  be  all  right  — 
Jason  was  coming  back  rich,  to  marry  her.  Jem  would 
have  the  yawl  and  Rhoda  get  away  to  study  singing.  And 
yet  all  that  she  vaguely  dreaded  about  Jason  himself  per 
sisted  darkly  at  the  back  of  her  consciousness,  augmented 
by  Honora  Canderay's  warning.  She  was  a  little  afraid 
of  Jason,  too;  in  a  way,  after  so  long,  he  seemed  like  a 
stranger,  a  stranger  whom  she  was  going  to  wed. 

"  He'll  be  all  dressed  up,"  Rhoda  stated.  "  I  hope, 
Olive,  you  will  kiss  him  as  soon  as  he  steps  through  the 
door.  I  know  I  would." 

[247] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

"  Don't  be  so  shameless,  Rhoda,"  the  elder  admonished 
her.  "  You  are  very  indelicate.  I'd  never  think  of  kiss 
ing  Jason  like  that." 

"  I  will  go  over  and  see  the  man  who  owns  her,"  Jem 
said  enigmatically.  "  She's  a  cockpit  boat  but  I  heard 
the  wave  wasn't  made  that  could  fill  her.  And  we  have 
my  share  of  the  last  run  till  Jason's  here." 

He  paid  this  faithfully  into  Olive's  hand  the  next  day 
and  then  disappeared.  She  thought  he  came  through 
the  door  again,  someone  stood  behind  her.  Olive  turned 
slowly  and  saw  an  impressive  figure  in  stiff  black  broad 
cloth  and  an  incredibly  high  glassy  silk  hat. 

VI 

She  knew  instinctively  that  it  must  be  Jason  Bur- 
rage,  and  yet  the  feeling  of  strangeness  persisted.  All 
sense  of  the  time  which  had  elapsed  since  Jason  left  was 
lost  in  the  illusion  that  the  figure  familiar  to  her  through 
years  of  knowledge  and  association  had  instantly,  by  a 
species  of  magic,  been  transformed  into  the  slightly  smil 
ing,  elaborate  man  in  the  doorway.  She  stepped  back 
ward,  hesitatingly  pronouncing  his  name. 

"  Olive,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  deep,  satisfied  breath, 
"it  hasn't  changed  a  particle!  "  To  her  extreme  relief 
he  did  not  make  a  move  to  embrace  her;  but  gazed  intently 
about  the  room.  One  of  the  things  that  made  him  seem 
different,  she  realized,  was  the  rim  of  whiskers  framing 
his  lower  face.  She  became  conscious  of  details  of  his  ap 
pearance  —  baggy  dove-colored  trousers  over  glazed  boots, 
a  quince  yellow  waistcoat  in  diamond  pattern,  a  cluster  of 

[248] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

seals.  Then  her  attention  was  held  by  his  countenance 
and  she  saw  that  his  clothes  were  only  an  insignifi 
cant  part  of  his  real  difference  from  the  man  she  had 
known. 

Jason  Burrage  had  always  had  a  set  will,  the  reputation 
of  an  impatient,  even  ugly  disposition.  This  had  been 
marked  by  a  sultry  lip  and  nickering  eye;  but  now, 
though  his  expression  was  noticeably  quieter,  it  gave  her 
the  impression  of  a  glittering  and  dangerous  reserve;  his 
masklike  calm  was  totally  other  than  the  mobile  face  she 
had  known.  Then,  too,  he  had  grown  much  older  —  she 
swiftly  computed  his  age :  it  could  not  be  more  than  forty- 
two,  yet  his  hair  was  thickly  stained  with  grey,  lines 
starred  the  corners  of  his  eyes  and  drew  faintly  at  his 
mouth. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me,  Olive?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  Jason,  what  an  unnecessary  question.  Of 
course  I  am,  more  thankful  than  I  can  say  for  your 
safety." 

"  I  walked  across  the  hills  from  the  Dumner  stage,"  he 
proceeded.  "  It  was  something  to  see  Cottarsport  on  its 
bay  and  the  Neck  and  the  fishing  boats  at  Planger's 
wharf.  I'd  like  to  have  an  ounce  of  gold  for  every 
time  I  thought  about  it  and  pictured  it  and  you.  Out  on 
the  placers  of  the  Calaveras,  or  the  Feather,  I  got  to  be 
lieving  there  wasn't  any  such  town,  but  here  it  is "  he 

advanced  toward  her.  She  realized  that  she  was  about  to 
be  kissed  and  a  painful  color  dyed  her  cheeks. 

"  You'll  stop  for  supper,"  she  said  practically. 

"  I  haven't  been  home  yet,  I  came  right  here;  I'll  see 
them  and  come  back.  I'll  bet  I  find  them  in  the  kitchen, 

[249] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

with  the  front  stoves  black,  in  spite  of  what  I  wrote  and 
sent.  I  brought  you  a  present,  just  for  fun,  and  I'll  leave 
it  now  since  it's  heavy."  He  bent  over  a  satchel  at  his  feet 
and  got  a  buckskin  bag,  bigger  than  his  two  fists,  which 
he  dropped  with  a  dull  thud  on  the  table. 

"What  is  it,  Jason?  "  she  asked.  But  of  herself  she 
knew  the  answer.  He  untied  a  string,  and,  dipping  in 
his  fingers,  showed  her  a  fine  yellow  metallic  trickle. 
"  Gold  dust,  two  tumblers  full,"  he  replied.  "  We  used 
to  measure  it  that  way  —  a  pinch  a  dollar,  teaspoonful  to 
the  ounce,  a  wineglass  holds  a  hundred,  and  a  tumbler  a 
thousand  dollars." 

She  was  breathless  before  the  small  shapeless  pouch 
that  held  such  a  staggering  amount.  He  laughed,  "  Why, 
Olive,  it's  nothing  at  all.  I  just  brought  it  like  that  so 
you  could  see  how  we  carried  it  in  California.  We  are  all 
rich  now,  Olive  —  the  Burrages,  and  you're  one,  and  the 
Stanes.  I  have  close  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars." 

This  sum  was  little  more  to  her  than  a  fable,  a  thing 
beyond  the  scope  of  her  comprehension;  but  the  two  thou 
sand  dollars  before  her  gaze  was  a  miracle  made  manifest. 
There  it  was  to  study,  feel ;  subconsciously  she  inserted  her 
hand  in  the  bag,  into  the  cold,  smooth  particles. 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty  thousand,"  he  repeated;  "  but  if 
you  think  I  didn't  work  for  it,  if  you  suppose  I  picked  it 
right  out  of  a  pan  on  the  river  bars,  why  —  why  you  are 
wrong."  Words  failed  him  to  express  the  erroneousness  of 
such  conclusions.  "  I  slaved  like  a  Mexican,"  he  added; 
"  and  in  bad  luck  almost  to  the  end."  She  sat  and  gazed 
at  him  with  an  easier  air  and  a  growing  interest,  her  hands 

[250] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

clasped  in  her  lap.  "  What  I  didn't  know  when  I  left 
Cottarsport  was  wonderful. 

"  Why,  take  the  mining,"  he  stated  with  a  gesture,  "  I 
mean  the  bowl  mining  at  first,  just  the  heavy  work  in  it 
killed  off  most  of  the  prospectors  —  all  day  with  a  big  iron 
pan,  half  full  of  clay  and  gravel,  sloshing  about  in  those 
rivers.  And  maybe  you'd  work  a  month  without  a  glim 
mer,  waking  wet  and  cold  under  the  sierras,  whirling  the 
pan  round  and  round;  and  maybe  when  you  had  the 
iron  cleared  out  with  a  magnet,  and  dropped  in  the  quick 
silver  what  gold  was  there  wouldn't  amalgam.  I  can  tell 
you,  Olive,  only  the  best,  or  the  hardest,  came  through." 

He  produced  a  blunt,  tapering  cigar  and  lighted  it  ex 
pansively. 

"  A  lonely  and  dangerous  business :  everyone  carried  his 
dust  right  on  his  body,  and  there  were  plenty  would  risk 
a  shot  at  a  miner  coming  back  solitary  with  his  donkey  and 
his  pile.  It  got  better  when  the  new  methods  came,  and 
we  used  a  rocker  hollowed  out  of  a  log.  Then  four  of  us 
went  in  partnership  —  one  to  dig  the  gravel,  another  to 
carry  it  to  the  cradle,  a  third  to  keep  it  rocking,  and  the 
last  to  pour  in  the  water.  Then  we  drawed  off  the  gold 
and  sand  through  a  plug  hole. 

"  We  did  fine  at  that,"  he  told  her,  "  and  in  the  fall 
of  Fifty  cleaned  up  eighteen  thousand  apiece.  Then  we 
had  an  argument:  we  were  in  the  Yuba  country,  where  it 
was  kind  of  bad,  two  of  us,  and  I  was  one  of  them,  said  to 
divide  the  dust,  and  get  out  best  we  could;  but  the  others 
wanted  to  send  all  the  gold  to  San  Francisco  in  charge  of 
one  of  them  and  a  man  who  was  going  down  with  more 
dust.  We  finally  agreed  to  this  and  lost  every  ounce 

[251] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

we'd  mined.  The  escort  said  they  were  shot  by  some  of 
the  disbanded  California  army,  but  I'm  not  sure.  It 
seemed  to  me  like  our  two  had  met  somewhere,  killed  the 
other,  and  got  the  gold  to  rights." 

"  O  Jason!  "  Olive  exclaimed. 

"  That  was  nothing,"  he  said  complacently;  "  but  only 
a  joker  to  start  with.  I  did  a  lot  of  things  then  to  get  a 
new  outfit  —  sold  peanuts  on  the  Plaza  in  'Frisco,  or 
hollered  the  New  York  Tribune  at  a  dollar  and  a  half 
a  copy;  I  washed  glasses  in  a  saloon  and  drove  mules. 
After  that  I  took  a  steamer  for  Stocton  and  the  Calaveras. 
You  ought  to  have  seen  Stocton,  Olive,  board  shanties  and 
blanket  houses  and  tents  with  two  thieves  left  hanging 
on  a  gallows.  We  went  from  there,  a  party  of  us,  for 
the  north  bank  of  the  Calaveras,  tramping  in  dust  so  hot 
that  it  scorched  your  face.  Sluicing  had  just  started  and 
long  Toms  —  a  long  Tom  is  a  short  placer  —  so  we  didn't 
know  much  about  it.  Looking  back  I  can  see  the  gold 
was  there;  but  after  working  right  up  to  the  end  of  the 
season  we  had  no  more  than  a  couple  of  thousand  apiece. 
There  were  too  many  of  us  to  start  with. 

"Well,  I  drifted  back  to  San  Francisco,"  he  paused, 
and  the  expression  which  had  most  disturbed  her  deepened 
on  his  countenance,  a  stillness  like  the  marble  of  a  grave 
stone  guarding  implacable  secrets. 

"  San  Francisco  is  different  from  Cottarsport,  Olive," 
he  said  after  a  little.  "  Here  you  wouldn't  believe  there 
was  such  a  place;  and  there  Cottarsport  seemed  too  safe 
to  be  true  .  .  .  Well,  I  went  after  it  again,  this  time  as 
far  north  as  Shasta.  I  prospected  from  the  Shasta  coun 
try  south,  and  got  a  good  lump  together  again.  By  then 

[252] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

placer  mining  was  better  understood,  we  had  sluice  boxes 
two  or  three  hundred  feet  long,  connected  with  the  streams, 
with  strips  nailed  across  the  bottom  where  the  gold  and 
sand  settled  as  the  water  ran  through.  Yes,  I  did  well; 
and  then  fluming  commenced. 

"  That,"  he  explained,  "  is  damming  a  river  around  its 
bed  and  washing  the  opened  gravel.  It  takes  a  lot  of 
money,  a  lot  of  work  and  men;  and  sometimes  it  pays 
big,  and  often  it  doesn't.  I  guess  there  were  fifty  of  us 
at  it.  We  slaved  all  the  dry  season  at  the  dam  and  flume, 
a  big  wood  course  for  the  stream;  we  had  wing  dams  for 
the  placers  and  ditches,  and  the  best  prospects  for  eight 
or  ten  weeks*  washing.  It  was  early  in  September  when 
we  were  ready  to  start,  and  on  a  warm  afternoon  I  said 
to  an  old  pardner,  '  What  do  you  make  out  of  those  big, 
black  clouds  settling  on  the  peaks?  '  He  took  one  look 
—  the  wind  was  a  steady  and  muggy  southwest'er  —  and 
then  he  sat  down  and  cried.  The  tears  rolled  right  over 
his  beard. 

"  It  was  the  rains,  nearly  two  months  early,  and  the 
next  day  dams,  flume,  boards  and  hope  boiled  down  past 
us  in  a  brown  mash.  That  left  me  poorer  than  I'd  ever 
been  before;  I  had  more  when  I  was  home  on  the  wharves." 

"  Wait,"  she  interrupted  him,  rising,  "  if  you're  coming 
back  to  supper  I  must  put  the  draught  on  the  stove." 
From  the  kitchen  she  heard  him  singing  in  a  low,  con 
tented  voice: 

" '  The  pilot  bread  was  in  my  mouth, 
The  gold  dust  in  my  eye, 
And  though  from  you  I'm  far  away, 
Dear  Anna,  don't  you  cry ! '" 

[253] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

Then: 

"  '  Oh,  Ann  Eliza ! 
Don't  you  cry  for  me. 
I'm  going  to  Calaveras 
With  my  wash  bowl  on  my  knee.'  " 

She  returned  and  resumed  her  position  with  her  hands 
folded. 

"And  that,"  Jason  Burrage  told  her,  "was  how  I 
learned  gold  mining  in  California.  I  sank  shafts,  too, 
and  worked  a  windlass  till  the  holes  got  so  deep  they  had 
to  be  timbered  and  the  ore  needed  a  crusher.  But  after 
the  fluming  I  knew  what  to  wait  for.  I  kept  going  in 
a  sort  of  commerce  for  a  while  —  buying  old  outfits  and 
selling  them  again  to  the  late  comers  —  a  pick  or  shovel 
would  bring  ten  dollars  and  long  boots  fifty  dollars  a  pair. 
I  got  twenty-four  dollars  for  a  box  of  Seidlitz  powders. 
Then  in  Fifty-four  I  went  in  with  three  scientific  men, 
one  had  been  a  big  chemist  at  Paris,  and  things  took  a 
turn.  We  had  the  dead  wood  on  gold.  Why,  we  did 
nothing  but  re-travel  the  American  Fork  and  Indian  Bar, 
the  Casumnec  and  Moquelumne,  and  work  the  tailings  the 
earlier  miners  had  piled  up  and  left,  just  like  I  had  south. 
We  did  some  pretty  things  with  cyanide,  yes,  and  hy 
draulics  and  powder. 

"Things  took  a  turn,"  he  repeated;  "investments  in 
stampers  and  so  on,  and  here  I  am." 

After  he  had  gone  —  supper,  she  had  informed  him,  was 
at  five  exactly  —  Olive  had  the  bewildered  feeling  of  par 
tially  waking  from  an  extraordinary  dream.  Yet  the  buck 
skin  bag  on  the  table  possessed  a  weighty  actuality. 

[254] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 


VII 

She  sat  for  a  long  while  gazing  intently  at  the  gold, 
which,  like  a  crystal  ball,  held  for  her  varied  reflections. 
Then,  recalling  the  exigencies  of  the  kitchen,  she  hurried 
abruptly  away.  Her  thoughts  wheeled  about  Jason 
Burrage  in  a  confusion  of  all  the  impressions  she  had 
ever  had  of  him.  But  try  as  she  might  she  could  not 
picture  the  present  man  as  a  part  of  her  life  in  Cottars- 
port,  she  could  not  see  herself  married  to  him,  although 
that  event  waited  just  beyond  today.  She  set  her  lips 
in  a  straight  line,  a  fixed  purpose  gave  her  courage  in 
place  of  the  timidity  inspired  by  Jason's  opulent  strange 
ness  —  she  couldn't  allow  herself  to  be  turned  aside  for 
a  moment  from  the  way  of  righteousness.  The  gods  of 
mammon,  however  they  might  blackly  assault  her  spirit, 
should  be  confounded. 

".  .  .  hide  me 
Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past." 

She  sang  in  a  high  quavering  voice.  There  was  a  stir  be 
yond  —  surely  Jason  wasn't  back  so  soon ;  but  it;  was 
Jem. 

"  What's  on  the  table  here?  "  he  called. 

"  You  let  that  be,"  she  cried  back  in  a  panic  at  having 
left  the  gift  so  exposed.  "  That's  gold  dust,  Jason  brought 
it,  two  thousand  dollars'  worth." 

A  prolonged  whistle  followed  her  announcement.  Jem 
appeared  with  the  buckskin  bag  in  his  hand.  "Why, 
here's  two  yawls  right  in  my  hand,"  he  asserted. 

[253] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

"  Mind  one  thing,  Jem,"  she  went  on,  "  he's  coming 
back  for  supper,  and  I  won't  have  you  and  Rhoda  at 
him  about  boats  and  singing  the  minute  he's  in  the  house." 

Rhoda,  with  exclamations,  and  then  Hester,  inspected 
the  gold.  "I'd  slave  five  years  for  that,"  the  latter 
stated,  "  and  then  hardly  get  it;  and  here  you  have  it  for 
nothing." 

"You'll  get  the  good  of  it  too,  Hester,"  Olive  told 
her. 

"  I'll  just  work  for  what  I  get,"  she  replied  fiercely. 
"  I  won't  take  a  penny  from  Jason,  Olive  Stanes;  you 
can't  hold  that  over  me,  and  the  sooner  you  both  know  it 
the  better." 

"  You  ought  to  pray  to  be  saved  from  pride." 

"  I  don't  ask  benefits  from  anyone,"  Hester  stoutly  ob 
served. 

"  Hester "  Olive  commenced,  scandalized,  but  she 

stopped  at  Jason's  entrance.  "  Hester  she  wanted  a  share 
of  the  gold,"  Jem  declared  with  a  light  in  his  slow  gaze, 
"  and  Olive  was  cursing  at  her." 

"  Lots  more,"  said  Jason  Burrage,  "  buckets  full." 

In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  everyone  to  be  completely  at 
ease  the  supper  was  unavoidably  stiff.  But  when  Jason 
had  lighted  one  of  his  blunt  cigars,  and  begun  a  vivid 
description  of  western  life,  the  Stanes  were  transported 
by  the  marvels  following  one  upon  another:  a  nugget  had 
been  picked  up  over  a  foot  long,  it  weighed  a  hundred 
and  ninety  pounds,  and  realized  forty-three  thousand  dol 
lars.  "  Why,  fifty  and  seventy-five  lumps  were  common," 
he  asserted.  "  At  Ford's  Bar  a  man  took  out  seven  hun 
dred  dollars  a  day  for  near  a  month.  Another  found 

[256] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

seventeen  thousand  dollars  in  a  gutter  two  or  three  feet 
deep  and  not  a  hundred  yards  long. 

"  But  'Frisco  was  the  place,  you  could  see  it  spread  in 
a  day  with  warehouses  on  the  water  and  tents  climbing  up 
every  hill.  Happy  Valley,  on  the  beach,  couldn't  hold 
another  rag  house.  The  Parker  House  rented  for  a  hun 
dred  and  seventy  thousand  a  year,  and  most  of  it  paid  for 
gambling  privileges  —  monte  and  faro,  blazing  lights  and 
brass  bands  everywhere  and  dancing  in  the  El  Dorado 
saloon.  At  first  the  men  danced  with  each  other,  but 
later " 

He  stopped,  an  awkward  silence  followed.  Olive  was 
rigid  with  inarticulate  protest,  a  sense  of  outrage  — 
gambling,  saloons  and  dancing.  All  that  she  had  feared 
about  Jason  became  more  concrete,  more  imminent.  She 
saw  California  as  a  modern  Babylon,  a  volcano  of  gold 
and  vice;  already  she  had  heard  of  great  fires  that  had 
devastated  it. 

"  We  didn't  mine  on  Sunday,  Olive,"  Jason  assured 
her;  "  and  all  the  boys  went  to  the  preaching  and  sang 
the  hymns,  standing  out  on  the  grass." 

Hester,  finally,  with  a  muttered  period,  rose  and  dis 
appeared;  Jem  went  out  to  consult  with  a  man,  his  nod 
to  Olive  spoke  of  yawls;  and  Rhoda,  at  last,  reluctantly 
made  her  way  above.  Olive's  uneasiness  increased  when 
she  found  herself  alone  with  the  man  she  was  to  marry. 

"  I  don't  like  Rhoda  and  Jem  hearing  about  all  that 
wickedness,"  she  told  Jason  Burrage;  "they  are  young 
and  easy  affected.  Rhoda  gives  me  a  lot  of  worry  as  it 
is." 

"  Suppose  we  forget  them,"  he  suggested.  "  I  haven't 
[257] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

had  a  word  with  you  yet,  that  is,  about  ourselves.  I  don't 
even  know  but  you  have  gone  and  fell  in  love  with  some 
one  else." 

"Jason,"  she  replied,  "how  can  you?  I  told  you  I'd 
marry  you,  and  I  will." 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?"  he  demanded,  coming 
closer  and  capturing  her  hand. 

"  Why,  what  a  question.  Of  course  I'm  pleased  you're 
back  and  safe." 

"  You  haven't  got  a  headache,  have  you?  "  he  inquired 
jocularly. 

"  No,"  she  replied  seriously.  His  words,  his  manners, 
his  grasp,  worried  her  more  and  more.  Still,  she  re 
minded  herself,  she  must  be  patient,  accept  life  as  it  had 
been  ordained.  There  was  a  slight  flutter  at  her  heart,  a 
constriction  of  her  throat;  and  she  wondered  if  this  were 
love.  She  should,  she  felt,  exhibit  more  warmth  at  Jason's 
return,  the  preservation,  through  such  turbulent  years  of 
absence,  of  her  image.  But  it  was  beyond  her  power  to 
force  her  hand  to  return  his  pressure:  her  fingers  lay 
still  and  cool  in  his  grasp. 

"  You  are  just  the  same,  Olive,"  he  told  her;  "  and  I'm 
glad  you're  what  you  are,  and  that  Cottarsport  is  what  it 
is.  That's  why  I  came  back,  it  was  in  my  blood,  the  old 
town  and  you.  All  the  time  I  kept  thinking  of  when  I'd 
come  back  rich  as  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be,  and  get 
you  what  you  ought  to  have  —  be  of  some  importance  in 
Cottarsport  like  the  Canderays.  The  old  captain,  too, 
died  while  I  was  away.  How's  Honora  ?  " 

"  Honora  Canderay  is  an  ungodly  woman,"  Olive  as 
serted  with  emphasis. 

[258] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  he  said;  "but  I 
always  kind  of  liked  to  look  at  her.  She  reminded  me  of 
a  schooner  with  everything  set  coming  up  brisk  into  the 
wind."  Olive  made  a  motion  toward  the  stove,  but  he 
restrained  her;  rising,  he  put  in  fresh  wood.  Then  he 
turned  and  again  seemed  lost  in  a  long,  contented  inspec 
tion  of  the  quiet  interior.  Olive  saw  that  marks  of  weari 
ness  shadowed  his  eyes. 

"  This  is  what  I  came  back  for,"  he  reiterated;  "  peace 
ful  as  the  forests,  and  yet  warm  and  human.  Blood 
counts."  He  returned  to  his  place  by  her,  and  leaned  for 
ward,  very  earnestly.  "  California  isn't  real  the  way  this 
is,"  he  told  her,  "  the  women  were  just  paint  and  powder, 
like  things  you  would  see  in  a  fever,  and  then  you'd  wake 
up,  in  Cottarsport,  well  again,  with  you,  Olive." 

She  managed  to  smile  at  him  in  acknowledgment  of 
this. 

"I'm  desperately  glad  I  pulled  through  without  many 
scars.  But  there  are  some,  Olive;  that  was  bound  to  be. 
I  don't  know  if  a  man  had  better  say  anything  about  the 
past,  or  just  let  it  be,  and  go  on.  Times  I  think  one 
and  then  the  other.  Yet  you  are  so  calm  sitting  here,  and 
so  good,  it  would  be  a  big  help  to  tell  you  .  .  .  Olive,  out 
on  the  American,  and  God  knows  how  sorry  I've  been,  I 
killed  a  man,  Olive." 

Slowly  she  felt  herself  turning  icy  cold,  except  for  the 
hot  blood  rushing  into  her  head.  She  stared  at  him  for  a 
moment,  horrified;  and  then  mechanically  drew  back, 
scraping  the  chair  across  the  floor.  Perhaps  she  hadn't 
understood,  but  certainly  he  had  said 

"  Wait  till  I  say  what  I  can  for  myself,"  he  hurried  on, 
[2S9] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

following  her.  "  It  was  when  the  four  of  us  were  working 
with  a  rocker.  I  was  shoveling  the  gravel,  and  everyone 
in  California  knows  that  when  you're  doing  that,  and  find 
a  nugget  over  half  an  ounce,  it  belongs  to  you  personal 
and  not  to  the  partnership.  Well,  I  came  on  a  big  one, 
and  laid  it  away,  they  all  saw  it;  and  then  this  Eddie 
Lukens  hid  it  out  on  me.  He  was  the  only  one  near 
where  I  had  it,  he  broke  it  up  and  put  it  in  the  cradle, 
sure;  and  in  the  talk  that  followed  I  —  I  shot  him." 

He  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  her  shoulder  but  she 
wrenched  herself  away. 

"  Don't  touch  me  I  "  she  breathed.  She  thought  she  saw 
him  bathed  in  the  blood  of  the  man  he  had  slain.  Her 
lips  formed  a  sentence,  "  *  Thou  shalt  not  kill.'  " 

"  I  was  tried  at  Spanish  Bar,"  he  continued,  "  Miners' 
law  is  better  than  you  hear  in  the  East,  it's  quick  —  it 
has  to  be  —  but  in  the  main  it's  serious  and  right.  I  was 
tried  with  witnesses  and  a  jury  and  they  let  me  off,  they 
justified  me.  That  ought  to  go  for  something." 

"  Don't  come  near  me,"  she  cried,  choking,  filled  with 
dread  and  utter  loathing.  "  How  can  you  stand  there  and 
—  stand  there,  a  murderer,  with  a  life  on  your  heart! 
What " 

His  face  quivered  with  concern;  in  spite  of  her  words 
he  drew  near  her  again,  repeating  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  judged,  released.  Olive  Stanes'  hysteria  vanished 
before  the  cold  stability  which  came  to  her  assistance,  the 
sense  of  being  rooted  in  her  creed. 

"  '  Thou  shalt  not  kill/  "  she  echoed. 

The  emotion  faded  from  his  features,  his  countenance 
once  more  became  masklike,  the  jaw  was  hard  and  sharp, 

[260] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

his  eyes  narrowed.  "  It's  all  over  then?  "  he  asked.  She 
nodded,  her  lips  pinched  into  a  white  line. 

"What  else  could  be  hoped?  Blood  guiltiness.  O 
Jason,  pray  to  save  your  soul." 

He  moved  over  to  where  his  high  silk  hat  reposed, 
secured  it,  and  turned.  "  This  will  be  final,"  he  stated 
hardly.  Olive  stood  slightly  swaying,  with  closed  eyes. 
Then  she  remembered  the  buckskin  bag  of  not  yellow  but 
scarlet  gold.  She  stumbled  forward  to  it  and  thrust  the 
weight  in  his  hand.  Jason  Burrage's  fingers  closed  on  the 
gift,  while  his  gaze  rested  on  her  from  under  contracted 
brows.  He  was,  it  seemed,  about  to  speak,  but  instead 
preserved  an  intense  silence;  he  looked  once  more  about 
the  room  still  and  old  in  its  lamplight.  Why  didn't  he 
go !  Then  she  saw  that  she  was  alone : 

Like  the  eternal  rock  outside  the  door. 

From  above  came  the  clear,  joyous  voice  of  Rhoda  sing 
ing.  Olive  crumpled  into  a  chair  —  soon  Jem  would 
be  back.  .  .  .  She  turned  and  slipped  down  upon  the  floor 
in  an  agony  of  prayer. 


VIII 

Honora  Canderay  saw  Jason  Burrage  on  the  day  after 
his  arrival  in  Cottarsport:  he  was  walking  through  the 
town  with  a  set,  inattentive  countenance;  and,  although 
she  was  in  the  chaise  and  leaned  forward,  speaking  in  her 
ringing  voice,  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not  noticed  her. 
She  thought  his  expression  gloomy  for  a  man  returned  with 
a  fortune  to  his  marriage.  Honora  still  dwelt  upon  him  as 

[261] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

she  slowly  progressed  through  the  capricious  streets,  and 
mounted  toward  the  hills  beyond.  He  presented,  she  de 
cided,  an  extraordinary,  even  faintly  comic,  appearance  in 
Cottarsport  with  a  formal  black  coat  open  on  a  startling 
waistcoat  and  oppressive  gold  chain,  pale  trousers  and  a 
silk  hat. 

Such  clothes,  theatrical  in  effect,  were  inevitable  to  his 
changed  condition  and  necessarily  stationary  taste.  Yet, 
considering,  she  shifted  the  theatrical  to  dramatic:  in  an 
obscure  but  palpable  manner  Jason  did  not  seem  cheap. 
He  never  had  in  the  past.  And  now,  while  his  inappro 
priate  overdressing  in  the  old  town  of  loose  and  weathered 
raiment  brought  a  smile  to  her  firm  lips,  there  was  still 
about  him  the  air  which  from  the  beginning  had  made  him 
more  noticeable  than  his  fellows.  It  had  even  been  added 
to  —  by  the  romance  of  his  journey  and  triumph. 

She  suddenly  realized  that,  by  chance,  she  had  stumbled 
on  the  one  term  which  more  than  any  other  might  con 
tain  Jason.  Romantic.  Yes,  that  was  the  explanation 
of  his  power  to  stir  always  an  interest  in  him,  vaguely  sug 
gest  such  possibilities  as  he  had  finally  accomplished,  the 
venture  to  California  and  return  with  gold  and  the  com 
plicated  watch  chain.  She  had  said  no  more  to  him  than 
to  the  other  Cottarsport  youth  and  young  manhood,  per 
haps  a  dozen  sentences  in  a  year;  but  whereas  the  others 
merged  into  a  composite  image  of  fuzzy  chins,  reddened 
knuckles  and  inept,  choked  speech,  Jason  Burrage  re 
mained  a  slightly  sullen  individual  with  potentialities. 
He  had  never  remained  long  in  her  mind,  nor  had  any 
actual  part  in  her  life  —  her  mother's  complete  indifference 
to  Cottarsport  had  put  a  barrier  between  its  acutely  inde- 

[262] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

pendent  spirit  and  the  Canderays  —  but  she  had  been 
easily  conscious  of  his  special  quality. 

That  in  itself  was  no  novelty  to  her  experience  of  a 
metropolitan  and  distinguished  society:  what  now  kept 
Jason  in  her  thoughts  was  the  fact  that  he  had  made  his 
capability  serve  his  mood;  he  had  taken  himself  out  into 
the  world  and  there,  with  what  he  was,  succeeded.  His 
was  not  an  ineffectual  condition  —  a  longing,  a  possibility 
that,  without  the  power  of  accomplishment,  degenerated 
into  a  mere  attitude  of  bitterness.  Just  such  a  state,  for 
example,  as  enveloped  herself. 

The  chaise  had  climbed  out  of  Cottarsport,  to  the  crown 
of  the  height  under  which  it  lay,  and  Honora  ordered 
Coggs,  a  coachman  all  but  decrepit  with  age,  to  stop.  She 
half  turned  and  looked  down  over  the  town  with  a  veiled, 
introspective  gaze.  From  here  it  was  hardly  more  than  a 
narrow  rim  of  roofs  about  the  bright  water,  broken  by 
the  white  bulk  of  her  dwelling  and  the  courthouse  square. 
The  hills,  turning  roundly  down,  were  sere  and  showed 
everywhere  the  grey  glint  of  rock;  Cottar's  Neck  already 
appeared  wintry;  a  diminished  wind,  drawing  in  through 
the  Narrows,  flattened  the  smoke  of  the  chimneys  below. 

Cottarsport ! 

The  word,  with  all  its  implications,  was  so  vivid  in  her 
mind  that  she  thought  she  must  have  spoken  it  aloud. 
Cottarsport  and  the  Canderays  —  now  one  solitary  woman. 
She  wondered  again  at  the  curious  and  involved  hold  the 
locality  had  upon  her;  its  tyranny  over  her  birth  and 
destiny.  It  was  comparatively  easy  to  understand  the 
influence  the  place  had  exerted  on  her  father:  commencing 
with  his  sixteenth  year  his  life  had  been  spent,  until  his 

[263] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

retirement  from  the  sea,  in  arduous  voyages  to  far  ports 
and  cities.  His  first  command  —  the  anchor  had  been 
weighed  on  his  twentieth  birthday  —  had  been  of  a  brig 
to  Zanzibar  for  a  cargo  of  gum  copal;  his  last  a  storm- 
battered  journey  about,  apparently,  all  the  perilous  capes 
of  the  world.  Then  he  had  been  near  fifty,  and  the  space 
between  was  a  continuous  record  of  struggle  with  savage 
and  faithless  peoples,  strange  latitudes  and  currents  and 
burdensome  responsibilities. 

Her  mother,  too,  presented  no  insuperable  obstacle  to  a 
sufficient  comprehension  —  a  noted  beauty  in  a  gay  and 
self-indulgent  society,  she  had  passed  through  a  trium 
phant  period  without  forming  any  attachment.  An  in 
ordinate  amount  of  champagne  had  been  uncorked  in  her 
honor,  compliment  and  service  and  offers  had  made  up  her 
daily  round;  until,  almost  impossibly  exacting,  she  had 
found  herself  beyond  her  early  radiance,  in  the  first  tragic 
realization  of  decline.  Stopping,  perhaps,  in  the  midst 
of  slipping  her  elegance  of  body  into  a  party  dress,  she 
remembered  that  she- was  thirty-five  —  just  Honora's  age 
at  present.  The  compliments  and  offers  had  lessened, 
she  was  in  a  state  of  weary  revulsion  when  Ithiel  Canderay 
—  bronzed  and  despotic  and  rich  —  had  appeared  be 
fore  her  and,  the  following  day,  urged  marriage. 

Yes,  it  was  easy  to  see  why  the  shipmaster,  desirous 
of  peace  after  the  unpeaceful  sea,  should  build  his  house 
in  the  still,  old  port  the  tradition  of  which  was  in  his 
blood.  It  was  no  more  difficult  to  understand  how  his 
wife,  always  a  little  tired  now  from  the  beginning  ill  ef 
fects  of  ceaseless  balls  and  wincing,  should  welcome  a 
spacious,  quiet  house  and  unflagging,  patient  care. 

[264] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

All  this  was  clear;  and,  in  a  way,  it  made  her  own 
position  logical  —  she  was  the  daughter,  the  repository,  of 
such  varied  and  yet  unified  forces.  In  moments  of  calm, 
such  as  this,  Honora  could  be  successfully  philosophical. 
But  she  was  not  always  placid ;  in  fact  she  was  placid  but 
an  insignificant  part  of  her  waking  hours.  She  was  ordi 
narily  filled  with  emotions  that,  having  no  outlet,  kept 
her  stirred  up,  half  resentful,  and  half  desirous  of  things 
which  she  yet  made  no  extended  effort  to  obtain. 

Honora  told  herself  daily  that  she  detested  Cottarsport, 
she  intended  to  sell  her  house,  give  it  to  the  town,  and 
move  to  Boston.  But,  after  three  or  four  weeks  in  the 
city,  a  sense  of  weariness  and  nostalgia  would  descend 
upon  her  —  the  bitterness  of  her  mother  lived  over  again 
—  and  drive  her  back  to  the  place  she  had  left  with  such 
decided  expressions  of  relief. 

This  was  the  root  of  her  not  large  interest  in  Jason 
Burrage  —  he,  too,  she  had  always  felt,  had  had  possi 
bilities  outside  the  local  life  and  fish  industry;  and  he 
had  gone  forth  and  justified,  realized,  them.  He  had 
broken  away  from  the  enormous  pressure  of  custom,  per 
sonal  habit,  and  taken  from  life  what  was  his.  But  she, 
Honora  Canderay,  had  not  had  the  courage  to  break  away 
from  an  existence  without  incentive,  without  reward. 
Something  of  this  might  commonly  find  excuse  in  the 
fact  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  that  the  doors  of  life  and 
experience,  except  one,  were  closed  to  her;  but,  indi 
vidually,  she  had  little  use  with  this  supine  attitude.  Her 
blood  was  too  domineering.  She  consigned  such  inhibi 
tions  to  pale  creatures  like  Olive  Stanes. 

[265] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

IX 

The  sun,  sinking  toward  the  plum  colored  hills  on 
the  left,  cast  a  rosy  glow  over  low-piled  clouds  at  the 
far  horizon,  and  the  water  of  the  harbor  seemed  scat 
tered  with  the  petals  of  crimson  peonies.  The  air  dark 
ened  perceptibly.  For  a  moment  the  grey  town  on  the 
fading  water,  the  distant  flushed  sky,  were  charged  with 
the  vague  unrest  of  the  flickering  day.  Suddenly  it  was 
colder,  and  Honora,  drawing  up  her  shawl,  sharply  com 
manded  Coggs  to  drive  on. 

She  was  going  to  fetch  Paret  Fifield  from  the  steam 
railway  station  nearest  Cottarsport.  He  visited  her  at 
regular  intervals  —  although  the  usual  period  had  been 
doubled  since  she'd  seen  him  —  and  asked  her  with  un 
failing  formality  to  be  his  wife.  Why  she  hadn't  agreed 
long  ago  —  except  that  Paret  was  Boston  personified  —  she 
did  not  understand.  In  the  moments  when  she  fled  to 
the  city  she  always  intended  to  have  him  come  to  her  at 
once.  But,  scarcely  "arrived,  her  determination  would 
waver,  and  her  thoughts  automatically,  against  her  will, 
return  to  Cottarsport. 

Studying  him,  as  they  drove  back  through  the  early 
dusk,  she  was  surprised  that  he  had  been  so  long-suffering. 
He  was  not  a  patient  type  of  man;  rather  he  was  the 
quietly  aggressive,  suavely  selfish,  example  for  whom  the 
world,  success,  had  been  a  very  simple  matter.  He  was 
not  solemn,  either,  or  a  recluse,  as  faithful  lovers  com 
monly  were;  but  furnished  a  leading  figure  in  the  cotil 
lions  and  had  a  nice  capacity  for  wine.  She  said  almost 
complainingly: 

[266] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  How  young  and  gay  you  look,  Paret,  with  your  lemon 
verbena." 

He  was,  it  seemed  to  her,  not  entirely  at  ease,  and 
almost  confused  at  her  statement.  Nevertheless,  he  gave 
his  person  a  swiftly  complacent  glance. 

"  I  do  seem  quite  well,"  he  agreed  surprisingly.  "  Hon- 
ora,  I'm  the  next  thing  to  fifty.  Would  anyone  guess  it?" 

This  was  a  new  aspect  of  Paret's,  and  she  studied  him 
keenly,  with  the  slightly  satirical  mouth  inherited  from  her 
father.  Embarrassment  became  apparent  at  his  exhibition 
of  trivial  pride,  and  nothing  more  was  said  until,  wind 
ing  through  the  gloom  of  Cottarsport,  they  had  reached 
her  house.  Inside  there  was  a  wide  hall  with  the  stair 
mounting  on  the  right  under  a  panelled  arch.  Mrs.  Coz- 
zens,  Honora's  aunt  and  companion,  was  in  the  drawing 
room  when  they  entered,  and  greeted  Paret  Fifield  with 
the  simple  friendliness  which,  clearly  without  disagree 
able  intent,  she  showed  only  to  an  unquestionable  few. 

After  dinner,  the  elder  woman  winding  wool  from  an 
ivory  swift  clamped  to  a  table,  Honora  thought  that  Paret 
had  never  been  so  vivacious;  positively  he  was  silly.  For 
no  comprehensible  reason  her  mind  turned  to  Jason  Bur- 
rage,  striding  with  a  lowered  head,  in  his  incongruous 
clothes,  through  the  town  of  his  birth. 

"  I  wonder,  Paret,"  she  remarked,  "  if  you  remember 
two  men  who  went  from  here  to  California  about  ten 
years  ago?  Well,  one  of  them  is  back  with  his  pockets 
full  of  gold  and  a  silk  hat.  He  was  engaged  to  Olive 
Stanes  ...  I  suppose  their  wedding  will  happen  at  any 
time.  You  see,  he  was  faithful  like  yourself,  Paret." 

The  man's  back  was  toward  her,  he  was  examining,  as 
[2671 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

he  had  for  every  visit  Honora  could  recall,  the  curious  ob 
jects  in  a  lacquered  cabinet  brought  from  over  seas  by 
Ithiel  Canderay,  and  it  was  a  noticeably  long  time  before 
he  turned.  Mrs.  Cozzens,  the  Shetland  converted  into  a 
ball,  rose  and  announced  her  intention  of  retiring;  a 
thin,  erect  figure  in  black  moire  with  a  long  countenance 
and  agate  brown  eyes,  seed  pearls,  gold  band  bracelets 
and  Venise  point  cap. 

When  she  had  gone  the  silence  in  the  room  became  op 
pressive.  Honora  was  thinking  of  her  life  in  connection 
with  Paret  Fifield,  wondering  if  she  could  ever  bring 
herself  to  marry  him.  She  would  have  to  decide  soon: 
it  seemed  incredible  that  he  was  nearing  fifty.  Why,  it 
must  have  been  fifteen  years  ago  when  he  first 

"  Honora,"  he  pronounced,  leaning  forward  in  his 
chair,  "  I  came  prepared  to  tell  you  a  particular  thing, 
but  I  find  it  much  more  difficult  than  I  had  anticipated." 

"  I  know,"  she  replied,  and  her  voice,  the  fact  she 
stated,  seemed  to  come  from  a  consciousness  other  than 
hers,  "  you  are  going  to  get  married." 

"  Exactly,"  he  said  with  a  deep,  relieved  sigh. 

She  had  on  a  dinner  dress  looped  with  a  silk  ball 
fringe,  and  her  fingers  automatically  played  with  the 
hanging  ornaments  as  she  studied  him  with  a  composed 
face. 

"  How  old  is  she,  Paret?  "  Honora  asked  presently. 

He  cleared  his  throat  in  an  embarrassed  manner.  "  Not 
quite  nineteen,  I  believe." 

She  nodded  and  her  expression  grew  imperceptibly 
colder.  A  slight  but  actual  irritation  at  him,  a  palpable 
anger,  shocked  her,  which  she  was  careful  to  screen  from 

[268] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

her  manner  and  voice.  "  You  will  be  very  happy,  cer 
tainly.  A  young  wife  would  suit  you  perfectly.  You 
have  kept  splendidly  young,  Paret." 

"  She  is  really  a  superb  creature,  Honora,"  he  proceeded 
gratefully.  "  I  must  bring  her  to  you.  But  I  am  going 
to  miss  this,"  he  indicated  the  grave  chamber  in  which 
they  sat,  the  white  marble  mantel  and  high  mirror,  the 
heavy  mahogany  settled  back  in  half  shadow,  the  dark  vel 
vet  draperies  of  the  large  windows  sweeping  from  ala 
baster  cornices. 

"  Sometimes  I  feel  like  burning  it  to  the  ground,"  she 
asserted,  rising.  "  I  would  if  I  could  burn  all  that  it  sig 
nifies,  yes,  and  a  great  deal  of  myself,  too."  She  raised 
her  arms  in  a  vivid,  passionate  gesture.  "  Leave  it  all 
behind  and  sail  up  to  Java  Head  and  through  the  Sunda 
Strait,  into  life." 

After  the  difficulty  of  his  announcement  Paret  Fifield 
talked  with  animation  about  his  plans  and  approaching 
marriage.  Honora  wondered  at  the  swiftness  with  which 
she  —  for  so  long  a  fundamental  part  of  his  thought  — 
had  dropped  from  his  mind.  It  had  the  aspect  of  a 
physical  act  of  seclusion,  as  if  a  door  had  been  closed 
upon  her,  the  last,  perhaps,  leading  out  of  her  isolation. 
She  hadn't  been  at  all  sure  that  she  would  not  marry 
Paret:  today  she  had  almost  decided  in  favor  of  such  a 
consummation  of  her  existence. 

A  girl  not  quite  nineteen!  She  had  been  only  twenty 
when  Paret  Fifield  had  first  danced  with  her.  He  had 
been  interested  immediately.  It  was  difficult  for  her  to 
realize  that  she  was  now  thirty-five,  soon  forty  would  be 
upon  her,  and  then  a  grey  reach.  She  didn't  feel  any 

[269] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

older  than  she  had,  well  —  on  the  day  that  Jason  Barrage 
departed  for  California.  There  wasn't  a  line  on  her 
face;  no  trace,  yet,  of  time  on  her  spirit  or  body;  but  the 
dust  must  inevitably  settle  on  her  as  it  did  on  a  vase 
standing  unmoved  on  a  shelf.  A  vase  was  a  tranquil  ob 
ject,  well  suited  to  glimmer  from  a  corner  through  a  dec 
ade;  but  she  was  different.  The  heritage  of  her  father's 
voyaging  stirred  in  her  together  with  the  negation  that  held 
her  stationary.  A  third  state  —  a  hot  rebellion,  poured 
through  her,  while  she  listened  to  Paret's  facile  periods. 
Really,  he  was  rather  ridiculous  about  the  girl.  She  was 
conscious  of  the  dull  pounding  of  her  heart. 


The  morning  following  was  remarkably  warm  and 
still;  and,  after  Paret  Fifield  had  gone,  Honora 
made  her  way  slowly  down  to  the  bay.  The  sunlight 
lay  like  thick  yellow  dust  on  the  warehouses  and 
docks,  and  the  water  filled  the  sweep  of  Cottar's  Neck 
with  a  solid  and  smoothly  blue  expanse.  A  fishing 
boat,  newly  arrived,  was  being  disgorged  of  partly  cured 
haddock.  The  cargo  was  loaded  into  a  wheelbarrow, 
transferred  to  the  wharf,  and  there  turned  into  a  basket 
on  a  weighing  scale,  checked  by  a  silent  man  in  series  of 
marks  on  a  small  book,  and  carried  away.  Beyond  were 
heaped  corks  and  spread  nets  and  a  great  reel  of  fine  cord. 

When  Honora  walked  without  an  objective  purpose  she 
always  came  finally  to  the  water.  It  held  no  surprise  for 
her,  there  was  practically  nothing  she  was  directly  in- 

[270] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

terested  in  seeing.  She  stood  —  as  at  present  —  gazing 
down  into  the  tide  clasping  the  piles,  or  away  at  the 
horizon,  the  Narrows  opening  upon  the  sea.  She  ex 
changed  unremarkable  sentences  with  familiar  figures, 
watched  the  men  swab  decks  or  tail  new  cordage  through 
blocks,  and  looked  up  absently  at  the  spars  of  the 
schooners  lying  at  anchor. 

She  had  put  on  a  summer  dress  again  of  white  India 
barege,  a  little  hat  with  a  lavender  bow,  and  stood  with 
her  silk  shawl  on  an  arm.  The  stillness  of  the  day  was 
broken  only  by  the  creak  of  the  wheelbarrow.  Last  night 
she  had  been  rebellious,  but  now  a  lassitude  had  settled 
over  her:  all  emotion  seemed  blotted  out  by  the  pouring 
yellow  light  of  the  sun. 

At  the  side  of  the  wharf  a  small  warehouse  held  several 
men  in  the  office,  the  smoke  of  pipes  lifting  slowly  from 
the  open  door;  and,  at  the  sound  of  footfalls,  she  turned 
and  saw  Jem  Stanes  entering  the  building.  His  expres 
sion  was  surprisingly  morose.  It  was,  she  thought  again 
as  she  had  of  Jason  Burrage  striding  darkly  along  the 
street,  singularly  inopportune  at  the  arrival  of  so  much 
good  fortune.  A  burr  of  voices,  thickened  by  the  salt 
spray  of  many  sea  winds,  followed.  She  heard  laughter, 
and  then  Jem's  voice  indistinguishable  but  sullenly  angry. 

Honora  progressed  up  into  the  town,  walked  past  the 
courthouse  square,  and  met  Jason  at  the  corner  of  the 
street.  "  I  am  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  welcome  you," 
she  said,  extending  her  hand.  Close  to  him  her  sense 
of  familiarity  faded  before  the  set  face,  the  tightly  drawn 
lips  and  hard  gaze.  She  grew  a  little  embarrassed.  He 
had  on  another,  still  more  surprising  waistcoat,  his  watch 

[271] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

chain  was  ponderous  with  gold ;  but  dust  had  accumulated 
unattended  on  his  shoulders,  and  dimmed  the  luster  of 
his  boots. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied  non-committally,  giving  her 
palm  a  brief  pressure.  He  stood  silently,  without  cor 
diality,  waiting  for  what  might  follow. 

"  You  are  safely  back  with  the  Golden  Fleece,"  she 
continued  more  hurriedly,  "  after  yoking  the  fiery  bulls 
and  sailing  past  the  islands  of  the  sirens." 

"  I  don't  know  about  all  that,"  he  said  stolidly. 

"  Jason  and  the  Argonauts,"  she  insisted,  conscious  of 
her  stupidity.  He  was  far  more  compelling  than  she  had 
remembered,  than  he  appeared  from  a  distance:  the 
marked  discontent  of  his  earlier  years  had  given  place 
to  a  certain  power,  repose:  the  romance  which  she  had 
decided  was  his  main  characteristic  was  emphasized.  She 
was  practically  conversing  with  a  disconcerting  stranger. 

"  Olive  was,  of  course,  delighted,"  she  went  resolutely 
on.  "  You  must  marry  soon,  and  build  a  mansion." 

"  We  are  not  going  to  marry  at  all,"  he  stated  baldly. 

"Oh — !  "  she  exclaimed  and  then  crimsoned  with  an 
noyance  at  the  involuntary  syllable.  That  idiot,  Olive 
Stanes,  she  added  to  herself  instantly.  Honora  could 
think  of  nothing  appropriate  to  say.  "  That's  a  great 
pity,"  she  temporized.  Why  didn't  the  boor  help  her? 
Hadn't  he  the  slightest  conception  of  the  obligations  of 
polite  existence?  He  stood  motionless,  the  fingers  of  one 
hand  clasping  a  jade  charm.  However  she,  Honora 
Canderay,  had  no  intention  of  being  affronted  by  Jason 
Burrage. 

"  You  must  find  it  pale  here  after  California,  if  what 
[272] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

I've  heard  is  true,"  she  remarked  crisply,  then  nodded 
and  left  him.  That  night  at  supper  she  repeated  the  bur 
den  of  what  he  had  told  her  to  her  aunt.  The  latter  an 
swered  in  a  measured  voice  without  any  trace  of  interest: 

"  I  thought  something  of  the  kind  had  happened,  the 
upstairs  girl  was  saying  he  was  drunk  last  night.  A  habit 
acquired  West,  I  don't  doubt.  It  is  remarkable,  Honora, 
how  you  remember  one  from  another  in  Cottarsport. 
They  all  appear  indifferently  alike  to  me.  And  I  am 
tremendously  upset  about  Paret." 

"  Well,  I'm  not,"  Honora  returned.  She  spoke  inat 
tentively,  and  she  was  surprised  at  the  truth  she  had 
exposed.  Paret  Fifield  had  never  become  a  necessary  part 
of  her  existence.  Except  for  the  light  he  had  shed  upon 
herself  —  the  sudden  glimpse  of  multiplying  years  and 
the  emptiness  of  her  days  —  his  marriage  was  unimpor 
tant.  She  would  miss  him  exactly  as  she  might  a  piece 
of  furniture  that  had  been  removed  after  forming  a  fa 
miliar  spot.  She  was  more  engrossed  in  what  her  aunt 
had  told  her  about  Jason. 

He  had  been  back  only  two  or  three  days,  and  already 
lost  his  promised  wife  and  got  drunk.  The  latter  was  dif 
ferent  in  Cottarsport  from  San  Francisco,  or  even  Boston; 
in  such  a  small  place  as  this  every  act  offered  the  sub 
stance  for  talk,  opinion,  as  long-lived  as  the  elms  on  the 
hills.  It  was  foolish  of  him  not  to  go  away  for  such 
excesses.  Honora  wanted  to  tell  him  so.  She  had  in 
herited  her  father's  attitude  toward  the  town,  she  thought, 
a  personal  care  of  Cottarsport  as  a  whole,  necessarily  ex 
pressed  in  an  attention  toward  individual  acts  and  people. 
She  wished  Jason  wouldn't  make  a  fool  of  himself. 
[273] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

Then  she  recalled  how  ineffectual  the  same  desire,  actually 
stated,  had  been  in  connection  with  Olive  Stanes.  She 
recalled  Olive's  horrified  face  as  she,  Honora,  had  said, 
"Grace  be  dammed!"  It  was  all  quite  hopeless.  "I 
think  I'll  move  to  the  city,"  she  informed  her  aunt. 

The  latter  sighed,  from,  Honora  knew,  a  sense  of  su 
perior  knowledge  and  resignation. 

After  supper  she  deserted  the  more  familiar  drawing 
room  for  the  chamber  across  the  wide  hall.  A  fire  of  coals 
was  burning  in  an  open  grate,  but  there  was  no  other  light. 
Honora  sat  at  a  piano  with  a  ponderous  ebony  case,  and 
picked  out  Violetta's  first  aria  from  Traviata.  The  round 
sweet  notes  seemed  to  float  away  palpable  and  intact  into 
the  gloom.  It  was  an  unusual  mood,  and  when  it  had 
gone  she  looked  back  at  it  in  wonderment  and  distrust. 
Her  customary  inner  rebellion  re-established  itself  per 
haps  more  vigorously  than  before:  she  was  charged  with 
energy,  with  vital  promptings,  but  found  no  opportunity, 
promise,  of  expression  or  accomplishment. 

The  warm  sun  lingered  for  a  day  or  so  more,  and  then 
was  obliterated  by  an  imponderable  bank  of  fog  that  rolled 
in  through  the  Narrows,  over  Cottar's  Neck,  and  changed 
even  the  small  confines  of  the  town  into  a  vast  labyrinth. 
That,  in  turn,  was  dissipated  by  a  swinging  eastern  storm, 
tipped  with  hail,  which  left  stripped  trees  on  an  ashen 
blue  sky  and  dark,  frigid  water  slapping  uneasily  at  the 
water  front. 

Honora  Canderay's  states  of  mind  were  as  various  and 
similar. 


[274] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 


XI 

Her  outer  aspect,  however,  unlike  the  weather, 
showed  no  evidence  of  change:  as  usual  she  drove 
in  the  chaise  on  afternoons  when  it  was  not  too  cold; 
she  appeared,  autocratic  and  lavish,  in  the  shops  of 
Citron  Street;  she  made  her  usual,  aimless  excursions 
to  the  harbor.  Jem  Stanes,  she  saw,  was  still  a 
deck  hand  on  the  schooner  Gloriana.  Looking  back  to 
the  morning  when  he  had  scowlingly  entered  the  office  on 
the  wharf  she  was  able  to  reconstruct  the  cause  of  his  ill 
humor  —  a  brother-in-law  to  Jason  Burrage  was  a  person 
of  far  different  employment  from  an  ordinary  Stanes. 
She  passed  Olive  on  the  street,  but  the  latter,  except  for 
a  perfunctory  greeting,  hurried  immediately  by. 

The  stories  of  Jason's  reckless  conduct  multiplied  —  he 
had  consumed  a  staggering  amount  of  Medford  rum  and, 
in  the  publicity  of  noon  and  Marlboro  Street,  sat  upon  the 
now  notable  silk  hat.  He  had  paid  for  some  cheroots  with 
a  pinch  of  gold  dust  as  they  were  said  to  do  in  the  far 
West.  He  carried  a  loaded  derringer,  and  shot  "  for  fun  " 
the  jar  of  colored  water  in  the  apothecary's  window,  and 
had  threatened,  with  a  grim  face,  to  do  the  same  for  who 
ever  might  interfere  with  his  pleasures.  He  was,  she 
learned,  rapidly  becoming  a  local  scandal  and  menace. 

If  it  had  been  anyone  but  Jason  Burrage,  native  born 
and  folded  in  the  glamour  of  his  extraordinary  fortune, 
he  would  have  been  immediately  and  roughly  suppressed: 
Honora  well  knew  the  rugged  and  severe  temper  of  the 
town.  As  it  was  he  went  about  —  attended  by  its  least 

[27S] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

desirable  element,  a  chorus  to  magnify  his  liberality  and 
daring  —  in  an  atmosphere  of  wonderment  and  excited 
curiosity. 

This,  she  thought,  was  highly  regrettable.  Yet,  in  his 
present  frame  of  mind,  what  else  was  there  for  him  to  do? 
He  couldn't  be  expected  to  take  seriously,  be  lost  in,  the 
petty  affairs  of  Cottarsport;  beyond  a  limited  amount  the 
gold  for  which  he  had  endured  so  much  —  she  had  heard 
something  of  his  misfortunes  and  struggle  —  was  useless 
here;  and,  without  balance,  he  must  inevitably  drift  into 
still  greater  debauch  in  large  cities. 

He  was  now  a  frequently  recurring  figure  in  her  thought. 
In  the  correct  presence  of  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Cozzens,  in 
delicate  clothes  and  exact  surroundings,  the  light  of  an 
astral  lamp  on  her  sharply  cut,  slightly  contemptuous  face, 
she  would  consider  the  problem  of  Jason  Burrage.  In  a 
way,  which  she  had  more  than  once  explained  and  justified 
to  herself,  she  felt  responsible  for  him.  If  there  had  been 
anything  to  suggest  she  would  have  gone  to  him  directly, 
but  she  had  no  intention  of  offering  a  barren  condemna 
tion.  Her  peculiar  position  in  Cottarsport,  while  it  indi 
cated  certain  obligations,  required  the  maintenance  of  an 
impersonal  plane.  Why,  he  might  say  anything  to  her; 
he  was  quite  capable  of  telling  her  —  and  correctly  —  to 
go  to  the  devil! 

A  new  analogy  was  created  between  Jason  Burrage  and 
herself:  his  advantage  over  her  had  broken  down,  they 
both  appeared  fast  in  untoward  circumstance  beyond  their 
power  to  alleviate  or  shape.  He  had  come  back  to  Cot 
tarsport  in  the  precise  manner  in  which  she  had  returned 
from  shorter  but  equally  futile  excursions.  Jason  had  his 

[276] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

money  which  at  once  established  necessities  and  made  sat 
isfaction  impossible;  and  she  had  promptings,  desires, 
that  by  reason  of  their  mere  being,  allowed  her  neither 
contentment  in  the  spheres  of  a  social  importance  nor  here 
in  the  quiet  place  where  so  much  of  her  was  rooted.  Gaz 
ing  at  her  Aunt  Herriot's  hard,  fine  profile  the  thought 
of  her,  Honora  Canderay's,  resemblance  to  the  returned 
miner  carousing  with  the  dregs  of  the  town  brought  a 
shade  of  ironic  amusement  to  her  countenance. 

Honora  left  the  house,  walking,  in  the  decline  of  a  No 
vember  afternoon.  She  had  been  busy  in  a  small  way, 
supervising  the  filling  of  camphor  chests  for  the  winter, 
and,  intensely  disliking  any  of  the  duties  of  domesticity, 
she  was  glad  to  escape  into  the  still,  cold  open.  Dusk 
was  not  yet  perceptible  but  the  narrow,  erratic  ways  of 
Cottarsport  were  filling  with  clear,  grey  shadow.  When, 
inevitably,  she  found  herself  at  the  harbor's  edge,  she  pro 
gressed  over  a  narrow  wharf  to  its  end.  It  had  been  wet, 
and  there  were  patches  of  black,  icy  film;  the  water  near 
by  was  grey-black,  but  about  the  bare  thrust  of  Cottar's 
Neck  it  was  green ;  the  warehouses  behind  her  were  blank 
and  deserted. 

She  had  on  a  cloak  lined  with  ermine,  and  she  drew  it 
closer  about  her  throat  at  the  frigid  air  lifting  from  the 
bay.  Suddenly  a  flare  of  color  filled  the  somber  space, 
a  coppery  glow  that  glinted  like  metal  shavings  on  the 
water  and  turned  Cottar's  Neck  red.  Against  the  sunset 
the  town  was  formless,  murky;  but  the  sky  and  harbor 
resembled  the  interior  of  a  burnished  kettle.  The  effect 
was  extraordinarily  unreal,  melodramatic,  and  she  was 
watching  the  color  fade,  when  a  figure  wavered  out  of 

[277] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

the  shadows  and  moved  insecurely  toward  her.  At  first 
she  thought  the  stumbling  progressions  were  caused  by 
the  ice:  then  she  saw  that  it  was  Jason  Burrage,  drunk. 

He  wore  the  familiar  suit  of  broadcloth,  with  no  outer 
covering,  and  a  rough  hat  pulled  down  upon  his  fixed 
gaze.  She  stood  motionless  while  he  approached,  and 
then  calmly  met  his  heavy  interrogation. 

"  Honora,"  he  articulated,  "  Honora  Canderay,  one  — 
one  of  the  great  Canderays  of  Cottarsport  —  Well,  why 
don't  you  say  something?  Too  set  up  for  a  civil,  for 
a " 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,  Jason,"  she  replied  crisply;  "  and 
do  go  home  —  you'll  freeze  out  here  as  you  are." 

"  One  of  the  great  Canderays,"  he  reiterated,  con 
temptuously.  He  came  very  close  to  her.  "  You're  not 
much.  Here  they  think  you.  .  .  .  But  I've  been  to  Cali 
fornia,  and  at  the  Jenny  Lind  ...  in  silk  like  a  blue 
bird,  and  sing .  Nobody  ever  heard  of  the  Can 
derays  in  'Frisco,  but  they  know  Jason  Burrage,  Burrage 
who  had  all  the  bad  luck  there  was,  and  then  struck  it 
rich." 

He  swayed  perilously,  and  she  put  out  a  palm  and 
steadied  him.  "  Go  back.  You  are  not  fit  to  be  around." 

Jason  struck  her  hand  down  roughly.  "  I'm  fitter 
than  you.  What  are  you,  anyway?  "  he  caught  her  shoul 
der  in  vise-like  fingers.  "  Nothing  but  a  woman,  that's 
all  —  just  a  woman." 

"  You  are  hurting  me,"  she  said  fearlessly. 

His  grip  tightened,  and  he  studied  her,  his  eyes  in 
human  in  a  stony,  white  face.  "  Nothing  more  than 
that." 

[278] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  You  are  very  surprising,"  she  responded.  "  Do  you 
know,  I  had  never  thought  of  it.  And  it's  true;  that  is 
precisely  what  and  all  I  am." 

His  expression  became  troubled;  he  released  her, 
stepped  back,  slipped,  and  almost  fell  into  the  water. 
Honora  caught  his  arm  and  dragged  him  to  the  middle 
of  the  wharf.  "  A  dam'  Canderay,"  he  muttered.  "  And 
I'm  better,  Jason  Burrage.  Ask  them  at  the  El  Dorado, 
or  Indian  Bar;  but  that's  gone  —  the  early  days.  All 
scientific  now.  We  got  the  dead  wood  on  gold  .  .  . 
Cyanide." 

"  Come  home,"  she  repeated  brusquely,  turning  him, 
with  a  slight  push,  toward  the  town  settled  in  darkness. 
It  sent  him  falling  forward  in  the  direction  she  wished. 
Honora  supported  him,  led  him  on.  At  intervals  he 
hung  back,  stopped.  His  speech  became  confused,  then, 
it  appeared,  his  reason  commenced  slowly  to  return.  The 
streets  were  empty;  a  lamp  shone  dimly  on  its  post  at  a 
corner;  she  guided  Jason  round  a  sunken  space. 

Honora  had  no  sense  of  repulsion;  she  was  conscious 
of  a  faint  pity,  but  her  energy  came  dimly  from  that  feel 
ing  of  obligation;  once  more  she  told  herself  inherited 
from  her  father  —  their  essential  attitude  to  Cottarsport. 
At  the  same  time  she  found  herself  studying  his  face 
with  a  personal  curiosity.  She  was  glad  that  it  was  not 
weak,  that  rum  had  been  ineffectual  to  loosen  its  hardness. 
He  now  seemed  capable  of  walking  alone,  and  she  stood 
aside. 

Jason  was  at  a  loss  for  words;  his  lips  moved,  but 
inaudibly.  "  Keep  away  from  the  water,"  she  com 
manded,  "  or  from  Medford  rum.  And,  some  evening 

[279] 


GOLD     AND    IRON 

soon,    come   to    see   me."     She   said   this    without   pre 
meditation,  from  an  instinct  beyond  her  searching. 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  he  replied  in  a  surprisingly  rational 
voice,  "  because  I've  lost  my  silk  hat." 

"  There  are  hundreds  for  sale  in  Boston,"  she  an 
nounced  impatiently;  "  go  and  get  another." 

"  That  never  came  to  me,"  he  admitted,  patently  struck 
by  this  course  of  rehabilitation  through  a  new  high  hat. 
"  There  was  something  I  had  to  say  to  you  but  it  left  my 
mind,  about  a —  a  gold  fleece;  it  turned  into  something 
else,  on  the  wharf." 

"  When  you  see  me  again,"  she  moved  farther  from 
him,  suddenly  in  a  great  necessity  to  be  home.  She 
left  him,  talking  at  her,  and  went  swiftly  through  the 
gloom  to  Regent  Street.  Letting  herself  into  the  still 
hall,  the  amber  serenity  of  lamplight  in  suave  spacious 
ness,  she  swung  shut  the  heavy  door  with  a  startling  vigor. 
Then  she  stood  motionless,  the  cape  slipping  from  her 
shoulders  in  glistening  and  soft  white  folds  about  her 
arms,  to  the  carpet.  'Honora  wasn't  faint,  not  for  a  mo 
ment  had  she  been  afraid  of  Jason  Burrage,  this  was  not 
a  rebellion  of  over-strung  nerves,  yet  a  passing  blindness,  a 
spiritual  shudder,  possessed  her.  She  had  the  sensa 
tion  of  having  just  passed  through  an  overwhelming  ad 
venture:  yet  all  that  had  happened  was  commonplace, 
even  sordid.  She  had  met  a  drunken  man  whom  she 
hardly  knew  beyond  his  name  and  an  adventitious  fact, 
and  insisted  on  his  going  home.  Asking  him  to  call  on 
her  had  been  little  less  than  perfunctory  —  an  impersonal 
act  of  duty. 

Yet  her  being  vibrated  as  if  a  loud  and  disturbing  bell 
[280] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

had  been  unexpectedly  sounded  at  her  ear;  she  was  re 
sponding  to  an  imperative  summons.  In  her  room  chang 
ing  for  supper,  this  feeling  vanished,  and  left  her  usual 
introspective  humor.  Jason  had  spoken  a  profound  truth, 
which  her  surprise  had  recognized  at  the  time,  in  remind 
ing  her  that  she  was  an  ordinary  woman,  like,  for  in 
stance,  Olive  Stanes.  The  isolation  of  her  dignity  had 
hidden  that  from  her  for  a  number  of  years.  She  had 
come  to  think  of  herself  exclusively  as  a  Canderay. 

Later  her  sharp  enjoyment  in  probing  into  all  preten 
sions,  into  herself,  got  slightly  the  better  of  her.  "  I  saw 
Jason  Burrage  this  evening,"  she  told  Mrs.  Cozzens. 

"  If  he  was  sober,"  that  individual  returned,  "  it  might 
be  worth  recalling." 

"  But  he  wasn't.  He  nearly  fell  into  the  harbor.  I 
asked  him  to  see  us." 

"  With  your  education,  Honora,  there  is  really  no  ex 
cuse  for  confusing  the  singular  and  plural.  I  haven't 
any  doubt  you  asked  him  here,  but  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  us." 

"  You  might  be  amused  by  his  accounts  of  California. 
For,  although  you  never  complain,  I  can  see  that  you 
think  it  dull." 

"  I  am  an  old  woman,"  Herriot  Cozzens  stated,  "  my 
life  was  quite  normally  full,  and  I  am  content  here  with 
you.  Any  dullness  you  speak  of  I  regret  for  another 
reason." 

"  You  are  afraid  I'll  get  preserved  like  a  salted  had 
dock.  He  may  not  come." 


[281] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 


XII 

Honora  was  in  the  less  formal  of  the  drawing  rooms 
when  Jason  Barrage  was  announced.  He  came  forward 
almost  immediately,  in  the  most  rigorous  evening  attire, 
a  new  silk  hat  on  his  arm. 

"  You  had  no  trouble  getting  one,"  she  nodded  in  its 
direction. 

"  Four,"  he  replied  tersely. 

Jason  took  a  seat  facing  her  across  an  open  space  of 
darkly  flowered  carpet,  and  Honora  studied  him,  directly 
critical.  Against  a  vague  background  his  countenance 
was  extraordinarily  pronounced,  vividly  pallid.  His 
black  hair  swept  in  a  soft  wave  across  a  brow  with  in 
dented  temples,  his  nose  was  short  with  wide  nostrils,  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  square.  His  hands,  scarred  and 
discolored,  rested  each  on  a  black-clad  knee. 

She  was  in  no  hurry  to  begin  a  conversation  which 
must  be  either  stilted,  uncomfortable,  or  reach  beyond 
known  confines.  For  the  moment  her  daring  was  pas 
sive.  Jason  Burrage  stirred  his  feet,  and  she  attended 
the  movement  with  thoughtful  care.  He  said  unexpect 
edly: 

"  I  believe  I've  never  been  in  here  before,"  he  turned 
and  studied  his  surroundings  as  if  in  an  effort  of 
memory.  "But  I  talked  to  your  father  once  in  the 
hall." 

"  Nothing  has  been  changed,"  she  answered  almost  un 
intelligibly.  "  Very  little  does  in  Cottarsport." 

"  That's  so,"  he  assented.  "  I  saw  it  when  I  came 
[282] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

back.  It  was  just  the  same,  but  I "  he  stopped  and 

his  expression  became  gloomy. 

"  If  you  mean  that  you  were  different  you  are  wrong," 
she  declared  concisely.  "  Just  that  has  made  trouble  for 
you  —  you  have  been  unable  to  be  anything  but  your 
self.  I  am  like  that,  too.  Everyone  is." 

"  I  have  been  through  things,"  he  told  her  enigmatically. 
"  Why  look  —  just  the  trip :  to  Charges  on  the  Isthmus, 
and  then  mules  and  canoes  through  that  ropey  woods  to 
Panama,  with  thousands  of  prospectors  waiting  for  the 
steamer.  Then  back  by  Mazatlan,  Mexico  City  and  Vera 
Cruz.  A  man  sees  things." 

Her  inborn  uneasiness  at  rooms,  confining  circumstance, 
her  restless  desire  for  unlimited  horizons,  for  the  mere 
fact  of  reaching,  moving,  stirred  into  being  at  the  names 
he  repeated.  Tomorrow  she  would  go  away,  find  some 
thing  new  — 

"  It  must  have  been  horridly  rough  and  dirty." 

"  A  good  many  turned  back  or  died,"  he  added  ten 
tatively.  "  But  after  you  once  got  there  a  sort  of  crazi- 
ness  came  over  you  —  you  couldn't  wait  to  buy  a  pan  or 
shovel.  The  bay  was  full  of  rotting  ships  deserted  by 
their  crews,  a  thicket  of  masts  with  even  the  sails  still 
hanging  to  them.  The  men  jumped  overboard  to  get 
ashore  and  pick  up  gold." 

She  thought  with  a  pang  of  the  idle  ships  with  sprung 
rigging,  sodden  canvas  lumpily  left  on  the  decks,  rotting 
as  he  had  said,  in  files.  The  image  afflicted  her  like  a 
physical  pain,  and  she  left  it  hurriedly.  "  But  San 
Francisco  must  have  been  full  of  life." 

"  You  had  to  shout  to  be  heard  over  the  bands,  and 
[283] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

everything  blazing.     Pyramids  of  nuggets  on  the  gam 
bling  tables.     Gold  dust  and  champagne  and  mud." 

"  Whatever  will  you  find  here?  "  She  immediately 
regretted  her  query,  which  seemed  to  search  improperly 
into  the  failure  of  his  marriage. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  going  back,"  he  admitted. 

Curiously  Honora  was  sorry  to  hear  this,  unreason 
ably  it  gave  to  Cottarsport  a  new  aspect  of  barrenness, 
the  vista  of  her  own  life  reached  interminable  and 
monotonous  into  the  future.  And  she  was  certain  that, 
without  the  necessity  and  incentive  of  labor,  it  would 
be  destructive  for  Jason  to  return  to  San  Francisco. 

"  What  would  you  do?  " 

"  Gamble,"  he  replied  cynically. 

"  Admirable  prospect,"  she  said  lightly.  Her  man 
ner  unmistakably  conveyed  the  information  that  his  call 
had  drawn  to  an  end.  He  clearly  resisted  this  for  a  min 
ute  or  two,  and  then  stirred. 

"  You  must  come  again." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  demanded  abruptly,  grasping  his  hat, 
which  had  reposed  on  the  carpet  at  his  side. 

"  News  from  California,  from  the  world  outside,  is 
rare  in  Cottarsport.  You  must  see  that  you  are  an  in 
teresting  figure  to  us." 

"Why?"  he  persisted,  frowning. 

She  rose,  her  face  as  hard  as  his  own,  but  with  a  faint 
smile  in  place  of  his  lowering  expression.  "  No,  you 
haven't  changed;  not  even  to  the  extent  of  a  superficial 
knowledge  of  drawing  rooms." 

"  I  ought  to  have  seen  better  than  come." 

"  The  ignorance  was  all  my  own." 
[284] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  But  once "  he  paused. 

"  Should  be  enough,"  her  smile  widened.  Yet  she 
was  furious  with  herself  for  having  quarreled  with 
him;  the  descent  from  the  altitude  of  the  Canderays  had 
been  enormous.  What  extraordinary  influence  had  col 
ored  her  acts  in* the  past  few  days? 

Mrs.  Cozzens,  at  breakfast,  inquired  placidly  how 
the  evening  before  had  progressed,  and  Honora  made 
a  gesture  expressive  of  its  difficulties.  "  You  will  create 
such  responsibilities  for  yourself,"  the  elder  stated. 

This  one,  it  suddenly  appeared  to  Honora,  had  been 
thrust  upon  her.  She  made  repeated  and  angry  efforts 
to  put  Jason  Burrage  from  her  mind;  but  his  appear 
ance  sitting  before  her,  his  words  and  patent  discon 
tent,  flooded  back  again  and  again.  She  realized  now 
that  he  was  no  impersonal  problem;  somehow  he  had 
got  twisted  into  the  fibres  of  her  existence;  he  was  more 
vividly  in  her  thoughts  than  Paret  Fifield  had  ever  been. 
She  attempted  to  ridicule  him  mentally,  and  called  up 
pictures  of  his  preposterous  clothes,  the  ill-bred  waist 
coats  and  ponderous  watch  chain.  They  faded  before 
the  memory  of  the  set  jaw,  his  undeniable  romance. 

Wrapped  in  fur  she  elected  to  drive  after  dinner;  the 
day  was  cold  but  palely  clear,  and  she  felt  that  her 
cheeks  were  glowing  with  unusual  color.  Above  the  town, 
on  the  hills  now  sere  with  frost  and  rock,  the  horses, 
under  the  aged  guidance  of  Coggs,  continually  dropped 
from  a  jog  trot  to  an  ambling  walk.  Honora  paid  no 
attention  to  the  gait,  she  was  impervious  to  the  wide, 
glittering  reach  of  water;  and  she  was  startled  to  find 
herself  abreast  a  man  gazing  into  the  chaise. 

[285] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

"  I  made  a  jackass  out  of  myself  last  night,"  he  ob 
served  gloomily. 

She  automatically  stopped  the  carriage  and  held  back 
the  buffalo  robe.  Jason  hesitated,  but  was  forced  to 
take  a  seat  at  her  side.  Honora  said  nothing,  and  the 
horses  again  went  forward. 

"  I'd  been  drinking  a  lot  and  was  all  on  edge,"  he 
volunteered  further.  "  I  feel  different  today.  I  can 
remember  your  mother  driving  like  this.  I  was  a  boy 
then,  and  used  to  think  she  was  made  of  ice;  wondered 
why  she  didn't  run  away  in  the  sun." 

"  Mother  was  very  kind,  really,"  Honora  said  ab 
sently.  She  was  relaxed  against  the  cushions,  the  coun 
try  dipped  and  spread  before  her  in  a  restful  brown 
garb;  she  watched  Coggs'  glazed  hat  sway  against  the 
sky.  The  old  sense  of  familiarity  with  Jason  Burrage 
came  back:  why  not,  since  she  had  known  him  all  their 
lives?  And  now,  after  his  years  away,  she  was  the 
only  one  in  Cottarsport  who  at  all  comprehended  his 
difficulties.  He  was  not  a  commonplace  man,  strength 
was  never  that;  and,  in  a  way,  he  had  the  quality 
which  more  than  any  other  had  made  her  father  so  no 
table.  And  he  was  not  unpleasant  so  close  beside  her. 
That  was  of  overwhelming  importance  in  the  forma 
tion  of  her  intimate  opinion  of  him.  He  had  been  re 
fined  by  the  bitterness  of  his  early  failure  in  California; 
he  bore  himself  with  a  certain  dignity. 

"What'll  I  do?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

For  the  life  of  her  she  couldn't  tell  him.  Except  for 
platitudes  she  could  offer  no  solution  against  the  fu 
ture.  Actual  living,  directly  viewed,  was  like  that  — 

[286] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

hopeless  of  exterior  solution.  "  I  don't  know,"  she 
admitted;  "  I  wish  I  did;  I  wish  I  could  help 
you." 

"This  money,  what's  it  good  for!  I  can't  get  my 
family  to  burn  two  small  stoves  at  once;  they'd  die  in 
the  kitchen  if  they  had  a  hundred  parlors;  I've  bought 
more  clothes  than  I'll  ever  wear,  four  high  hats  and  so 
on.  Not  going  to  get  married;  no  use  for  a  big  house, 
for  anything  more  than  the  room  I  have.  I  get  plenty 
to  eat " 

"You  might  do  some  good  with  it,"  she  suggested. 
The  base  of  what  she  was  saying,  Honora  realized,  was 
that  he  would  be  as  well  off  with  his  fortune  given 
away.  Yet  it  was  unjust,  absurd,  for  him  not  to  get  some 
use,  pleasure,  from  what  he  had  worked  so  extravagantly 
to  obtain. 

"  Somehow  that  wouldn't  settle  anything,  for  me,"  he 
replied. 

Coggs  had  turned  at  the  usual  limit  of  her  afternoon 
driving,  and  they  were  slowly  moving  back  to  the  town. 
Cottar's  Neck  was  fading  into  the  early  gloom,  and  a 
group  of  men  stared  at  Jason  seated  in  the  Canderays' 
chaise  as  if  their  eyes  were  being  played  with  in  the 
uncertain  light. 

"  Have  you  thought  any  more  about  going  West?  " 
she  inquired. 

They  had  stopped  for  his  descent  at  Marlboro  Street, 
and  he  stood  with  a  hand  on  the  wheel.  "  I  had  in 
tended  to  go  this  morning." 

He  held  her  gaze  steadily,  and  she  felt  a  swift  cold 
ness  touch  her  into  a  shiver. 

[287] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

"Tomorrow?"  this  came  in  a  spirit  of  perversity 
against  her  every  other  instinct. 

"Shall  I?" 

"  Would  you  be  happier  in  San  Francisco?  " 

Jason  Burrage  made  a  hopeless  gesture. 

".  .  .  for  supper,"  Honora  found  herself  saying  in  a 
rush;  "at  six  o'clock.  If  you  aren't  bound  for  Cali 
fornia." 

She  tried  to  recall  afterward  if  she  had  indicated  a 
particular  evening  for  the  invitation.  There  was  a  vague 
memory  of  mentioning  Thursday.  This  was  Tuesday 
.  .  .  Herriot  Cozzens  would  be  in  Boston. 

XIII 

A  servant  told  her  that  Mr.  Burrage  had  arrived  when 
she  was  but  half  ready.  She  was,  in  reality,  undecided 
in  her  choice  of  dress  for  the  evening;  but  finally  she 
wore  soft  white  silk,  with  deep,  knotted  fringe  on  the 
skirt,  a  low  cut  neck  and  a  narrow  mantle  of  black 
velvet.  Her  hair,  severely  plain  in  its  net,  was  drawn 
back  from  a  bang  cut  across  her  brow.  As  she  entered 
the  room  where  he  was  standing  a  palpable  admiration 
marked  his  countenance. 

He  said  nothing,  however,  beyond  a  conventional 
phrase.  Such  natural  reticence  had  a  large  part  in  her 
acceptance  of  him;  he  did  nothing  that  actively  disturbed 
her  hypercritical  being.  He  was  almost  distinguished  in 
appearance.  She  had  a  feeling  that  if  it  had  been  dif 
ferent .  Honora  distinctly  wished  for  a  flamboyant 

touch  about  him,  it  presented  a  symbol  of  her  command 

[288] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

of  any  situation  between  them,  a  reminder  of  her  superior 
ity. 

The  supper  went  forward  smoothly;  there  were  the 
welcome  inevitable  reminiscences  of  the  rough  fare  of 
California,  laughter  at  the  prohibitive  cost  of  beans;  and 
when,  at  her  direction,  he  lighted  a  cheroot,  and  they 
lingered  on  at  the  table,  Honora's  aloofness  was  becoming 
a  thing  of  the  past.  The  smoke  gave  her  an  unex 
pected  thrill,  an  extraordinary  sense  of  masculine  proxim 
ity.  There  had  been  no  such  blue  clouds  in  the  house 
since  her  father's  death  seven  years  ago.  Settled  back 
contentedly  Jason  Burrage  seemed  —  why,  actually,  he 
had  an  air  of  occupying  a  familiar  place. 

It  was  bitterly  cold  without,  the  room  into  which  they 
trailed  insufficiently  warm,  and  they  were  drawn  close 
together  at  an  open  Franklin  stove.  The  lamps  on  the 
mantel  were  distant,  and  they  had  not  yet  been  fully 
turned  up:  his  face  was  tinged  by  the  glow  of  the  fire. 
An  intense  face.  "  What  are  you  thinking  about  — 
me?"  she  added  coolly.  "Nothing,"  he  replied,  "I'm 
too  comfortable  to  think,"  there  was  a  note  of  surprise 
in  his  voice,  he  looked  about  as  if  to  find  reassurance 
of  his  present  position.  "  But  if  I  did  it  would  be  this 
—  that  you  are  entirely  different  from  any  woman  I've 
ever  known  before.  They  have  always  been  one  of  two 
kinds  —  one  or  the  other,"  he  repeated  somberly. 

"Now  you  are  both  together.  I  don't  know  as  I 
ought  to  say  that,  if  it's  nice.  I  wouldn't  like  to  try 
and  explain." 

"  But  you  must." 

"  It's  your  clothes  and  your  manner  put  against  what 
[289] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

you  are.  Oh  hell,  what  I  mean  is  you're  elegant  to  look 
at  and  good,  too." 

An  expression  of  the  deepest  concern  followed  his 
exclamation.  He  commenced  an  apology.  Hardly 
launched,  it  died  on  his  lips. 

Honora  was  at  once  conscious  of  the  need  for  his  con 
trition  and  of  the  fact  that  she  had  never  heard  a  more 
entertaining  statement.  It  was  evident  that  he  viewed 
her  as  a  desirable  compound  of  the  women  of  the  El 
Dorado  and  Olive  Stanes:  an  adroit  and  sincere  compli 
ment.  She  wanted  to  follow  it  on  and  on,  unfold  its 
every  exposition;  but,  of  course,  that  was  impossible. 
All  this  she  concealed  behind  an  indifferent  countenance, 
her  slim  white  fingers  half  embedded  in  the  black  mantle. 

Jason  Burrage  lighted  another  cheroot,  and  put  his  feet 
up  on  the  polished  brass  railing  of  the  iron  hearth.  This 
amused  her  beyond  words.  She  couldn't  remember  when 
she  had  had  another  such  vitalized  evening.  She  real 
ized  that,  through  the  last  years,  she  had  been  appallingly 
lonely;  but  with  Jason  smoking  beside  her  in  a  tilted 
chair  the  solitude  was  banished.  She  got  a  coal  for 
him  in  the  small,  burnished  tongs,  and  he  responded  with 
a  prodigious  puff  that  set  her  to  coughing. 

When  he  had  gone  the  house  was  hatefully  vacant;  as 
she  went  up  to  her  chamber  the  empty  spaciousness,  the 
semi-dark  well  of  the  stair,  the  high  hall  with  its  low 
turned  lamp,  the  blackness  of  the  third  story  pouring 
down  over  her,  oppressed  her  almost  beyond  endurance. 
Her  Aunt  Herriot,  already  old,  must  be  dead  before 
very  long,  there  was  none  other  of  her  connections  who 

[290] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

could  live  with  her,  and  she  would  have  to  depend  on 
perfunctory,  hired  companionship. 

Honora  saw  that  she  could  never  escape  from  the  in 
fluence  which  held  her  in  Cottarsport. 

In  her  room,  the  door  bolted,  it  was  no  better.  The 
interior  was  large,  uncompromisingly  square;  and, 
though  every  possible  light  was  burning,  still  it  seemed 
somber,  menacing. 

The  following  day  was  a  lowering  void  with  gusts  of 
rain  driving  against  the  windows.  Mrs.  Cozzens  would 
be  away  until  tomorrow,  and  Honora  sat  until  evening 
alone.  At  times  she  embroidered,  short-lived  efforts 
broken  by  despondent  and  aimless  excursions  through  the 
echoing  halls. 

She  attempted  to  read,  to  compose  herself  with  an 
elaborate  gilt  and  embellished  volume  called  "  The  Gar 
land."  But,  at  a  Lamentation  on  the  Death  of  Her 
Canary,  by  a  Person  of  Quality,  she  deliberately  dropped 
the  book  into  the  burning  coals  of  the  Franklin  stove. 
The  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  pages  crisp  and  burst  into 
flame  soon  evaporated.  The  day  was  a  calamity,  the  ap 
proaching  murky  evening  a  horror. 

At  supper  she  wondered  what  Jason  Burrage  was  do 
ing.  A  trace  of  the  odor  of  his  cheroot  lingered  in  the 
dining-room.  He  was  an  astonishingly  solid  —  the  only 
actuality  in  a  nebulous  world  of  lofty,  flickering  ceilings 
and  the  lash  of  rain.  He  might  as  well  smoke  in  her 
drawing  room  as  in  the  Burrage  kitchen.  Paret  Fifield 
would  have  drifted  naturally  to  the  Canderay  house,  but 
not  Jason,  not  a  native  of  Cottarsport.  .  .  .  With  an 
[291] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

air  of  determination  she  sharply  pulled  the  plush,  tas- 
seled  bell  rope  in  the  corner. 

XIV 

She  heard  the  servant  open  the  front  door;  there  was 
a  pause  —  Jason  was  taking  off  his  greatcoat  —  after 
which  he  entered,  calm  and  without  query. 

"  I  was  tired  of  sitting  alone,"  she  said  with  an  air 
of  entire  frankness.  In  a  minute  or  so  more  it  was  all 
as  it  had  been  the  evening  before  —  she  held  a  coal 
for  his  cheroot  as  he  tilted  back  beside  her  with  his  feet 
on  the  rail.  "  You  are  a  very  comfortable  man,  Jason," 
she  told  him. 

He  made  no  reply,  although  a  quiver  crossed  his  lips. 
Then,  after  a  little,  "  It's  astonishing  how  soon  you  get 
used  to  things.  Seems  as  if  I  had  been  here  for  years, 
and  this  is  only  the  third  time." 

"Have  you  thought  any  more  of  California?" 

He  faced  her  with  an  expression  of  surprise.  "  It 
had  gone  clean  out  of  my  mind.  I  suppose  I  will  go 
back,  though  —  nothing  here  for  me.  I  can't  come  to 
see  you  every  evening." 

She  preserved  a  silence  in  which  they  both  fell  to  star 
ing  into  a  dancing,  bluish  flame.  The  gusts  of  rain 
were  audible  like  the  tearing  of  heavy  linen.  An  ex 
traordinary  idea  had  taken  possession  of  Honora  —  if 
the  day  had  been  fine,  if  she  had  been  out  in  a  sparkling 
air  and  sun,  a  very  great  deal  would  have  happened 
differently.  But  just  what  she  couldn't  then  say:  the 
fact  alone  was  all  that  she  curiously  apprehended. 

[292] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  I  suppose  not,"  she  answered,  so  long  after  his  last 
statement  that  he  gazed  questioningly  at  her.  "  I  won 
der  if  it  has  occurred  to  you,"  she  continued,  "  how  much 
alike  we  are?  I  often  think  about  it."  « 

"  Why,  no,"  he  replied,  "  it  hasn't.  Jason  Burrage 
and  Honora  Canderay!  I  wouldn't  have  guessed  it,  and 
I  don't  believe  anyone  else  ever  has.  I'd  have  a  hard 
time  thinking  about  two  more  different.  It's  —  it's 
ridiculous,"  he  became  seriously  animated,  "  here  I  am 

—  well,   you   know   all   about  me  —  with   some   money, 
perhaps,  and  a  little  of  the  world  in  my  head;  but  you're 

—  you're  Honora  Canderay." 

"  You  said  once  that  I  was  nothing  but  a  woman," 
she  reminded  him. 

"  I  remember  that,"  he  admitted  with  evident  chagrin. 
"  I  was  drunk." 

"That's  when  the  truth  is  often  hit  on;  I  am  quite  an 
ordinary  sort  of  woman." 

He  laughed  indulgently. 

"  You  said  last  evening  I  had  some  of  a  very  common 
quality." 

"Now  you  mustn't  take  that  serious,"  he  protested; 
"  it  was  just  in  a  way  of  speech.  I  told  you  I  couldn't 
rightly  explain  myself." 

"  Anyhow,"  she  asserted  bluntly,  "  I  am  lonely.  What 
will  you  do  about  it?  " 

His  amazement  turned  into  a  consternation  which  even 
now  she  found  almost  laughable.  "  Me  ?  "  he  stammered. 
"  There's  no  way  I  can  help  you.  You  are  having  a 
joke." 

She  realized,  with  a  feeling  that  her  knowledge  came 
[293] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

too  late,  that  she  was  entirely  serious.  Jason  Burrage 
was  the  only  being  alive  who  could  give  her  any  assist 
ance,  yes,  save  her  from  the  future.  Her  hands  were 
cold,  she  felt  absolutely  still,  as  if  she  had  suddenly 
turned  into  marble,  a  statue  with  a  heart  slightly  flut 
tering. 

"  You  could  be  here  a  lot,"  she  told  him  and  then 
paused,  glancing  at  him  swiftly  with  hard,  bright  eyes. 
He  had  removed  his  feet  from  the  stove,  and  sat  with 
his  cheroot  in  a  poised,  awkward  hand.  She  was  cer 
tain  that  he  would  never  speak. 

"  We  might  get  married." 

Honora  was  startled  at  the  ease  with  which  the  words 
were  pronounced,  and  conscious  of  an  absurdly  trivial 
curiosity  —  she  wondered  just  how  much  he  had  been 
shocked  by  her  proposal?  She  saw  that  he  was  stupe 
fied. 

Then,  "So  we  might,"  he  pronounced  idiotically. 
"  There  isn't  any  real  reason  why  we  shouldn't.  That 

is "  he  stopped.     "Where  does  the  laugh   start?" 

he  demanded. 

Suddenly  Honora  was  overwhelmed,  not  by  what  she 
had  said,  but  by  the  whole  difficulty  and  inner  con 
fusion  of  her  existence.  She  turned  away  her  head  with 
an  unintelligible  period.  A  silence  followed  intensified 
by  the  rain  flinging  against  the  glass. 

"  It's  a  bad  night,"  he  muttered. 

The  banality  saved  her.  Again  practically  at  her  ease 
she  regarded  him  with  slightly  smiling  lips.  "  I  be 
lieve  I've  asked  you  to  marry  me,"  she  remarked. 

[294] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jason  Burrage.  He  stood  up. 
"If  you  mean  it,  I'd  like  to  very  much." 

"  You'd  better  sit  down,"  she  went  on  in  an  impersonal 
voice;  "there  ought  to  be  a  lot  of  things  to  arrange. 
For  instance,  hadn't  we  better  live  on  here,  for  a  while 
anyhow.  It's  a  big  house  to  waste." 

"  Honora,  you'll  just  have  to  stop  a  little,"  he  as 
serted,  "  I'm  kind  of  lost.  It  was  quick  in  California, 
but  that  was  a  funeral  procession  compared  with  you." 

Now  that  it  was  done,  she  was  frightened.  But  there 
was  time  to  escape  even  yet.  She  determined  to  leave  the 
room  quickly,  get  away  to  the  safety  of  her  bolted  door, 
her  inviolable  privacy.  She  didn't  stir.  An  immediate 
explanation  that  she  hadn't  been  serious  —  how  could 
he  have  thought  it  for  a  moment !  —  would  save  her.  But 
she  was  silent 

A  sudden  enthusiasm  lighted  up  his  immobile  face. 
"  I'll  get  the  prettiest  diamond  in  Boston,"  he  declared. 

"  You  mustn't "  she  commenced,   struggling  still 

to  retreat.     He  misunderstood  her. 

"  The  very  best,"  he  insisted. 

When  he  had  gone  she  remained  seated  in  the  formal 
chamber.  At  any  rate  she  had  conquered  the  emptiness 
of  her  life,  of  the  great  square  house  above  her.  It  was 
definitely  arranged,  they  were  to  marry.  How  amazed 
Herriot  Cozzens  would  be!  It  was  probable  that  she 
would  leave  Cottarsport,  and  her,  Honora,  immediately. 
Jason  hadn't  kissed  her,  he  had  not  even  touched  her 
hand,  in  going.  He  had  been  extremely  subdued,  except 
at  the  thought  of  the  ring  he  would  buy  for  her. 
[295] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

There  were  phases  of  the  future  which  she  resolutely 
ignored. 

Mrs.  Cozzens  came  back  as  had  been  planned  and 
Honora  told  her  at  once.  The  older  woman  expressed 
her  feeling  in  contained,  acid  speech.  "  I  am  surprised 
he  had  the  assurance  to  ask  you." 

"  Jason  didn't,"  Honora  calmly  returned. 

"It's  your  father,"  the  elder  stated;  "he  had  some 
very  vulgar  blood.  I  felt  that  it  was  a  calamity  when 
my  sister  accepted  him.  A  Cottarsport  person  at  heart, 
just  as  you  are,  always  down  about  the  water  and  those 
low  docks." 

"  I'm  sure  you're  right,  and  so  it's  much  better  for  me 
to  find  where  I  belong.  I  have  tried  to  get  away  from 
Cottarsport,  and  from  the  sea  and  the  schooners  sailing 
in  and  out  the  Narrows,  a  thousand  times.  But  I  always 
come  back,  just  as  father  did,  back  to  this  little  place 
from  the  entire  world  —  China  and  Africa  and  New 
York.  The  other  influences  weren't  strong  enough,  Aunt 
Herriot;  they  only  made  me  miserable;  and  now  I've 
killed  them.  I'll  say  good-bye  to  you  and  Paret  and  the 
cotillions,"  she  kissed  her  hand,  but  not  gaily,  to  a 
whole  existence  irrevocably  lost. 

With  Jason's  ring  blazing  on  her  slim  finger  she 
drove,  the  day  before  the  wedding,  for  the  last  time  as 
Honora  Canderay.  The  leaves  had  been  stripped  from 
the  elms  on  the  hills,  brown  and  barren  against  the  flash 
ing,  steely  water.  She  saw  that  Coggs  was  so  impotent 
with  age  that  if  the  horses  had  been  more  vigorous  he 
would  be  helpless.  Coggs  had  driven  for  her  father, 
then  her,  for  thirty  years.  It  was  too  cold  for  the  old  man 

[296] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

to  be  out  today.     His  cheeks  were  dark  crimson,   and 
continually  wet  from  his  failing  eyes. 

Herriot  Cozzens  had  left  her;  Coggs  ...  all  the 
intimate  figures  of  so  many  years  were  vanishing.  Jason 
remained.  He  had  almost  entirely  escaped  annoying 
her,  and  she  was  conscious  of  his  overwhelming  admira 
tion,  the  ineradicable  esteem  of  Cottarsport  for  the  Can- 
derays;  but  a  question,  a  doubt  more  obscure  than  fear, 
was  taking  possession  of  her.  After  all  she  was  supremely 
ignorant  of  life;  she  had  been  screened  from  it  by  pride 
and  luxurious  circumstance;  but  now  she  had  surrendered 
all  her  advantage.  She  had  given  herself  to  Jason;  and 
he  was  life,  mysterious  and  rude.  The  thunder  of  large, 
threatening  seas,  reaching  everywhere  beyond  the  placid 
gulf  below,  beat  faintly  on  her  perception. 

XV 

In  an  unfamiliar,  upper  room  of  the  Canderays'  house 
Jason  stood  prepared  for  the  signal  to  descend  to  his 
wedding.  The  ceremony  was  to  occur  at  six  o'clock;  it 
was  now  only  five  minutes  before  —  he  had  absently 
looked  at  his  watch  a  great  many  times  in  a  short  space 
—  and  he  was  striving  to  think  seriously  of  what  was 
to  follow.  But  in  place  of  this  he  was  passing  again 
through  a  state  of  silent,  incoherent  surprise.  This  was 
the  sort  of  thing  for  which  a  man  might  pinch  himself  to 
discover  if  he  were  awake  or  dreaming.  In  five,  no, 
four,  minutes  now  Honora  Canderay  was  to  become  his, 
Jason  Burrage's,  wife. 

A  certain  complacency  had  settled  over  him  in  the  past 
[297] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

few  days,  something  of  his  inborn  feeling  of  the  Can- 
derays  as  a  house  apart  seemed  to  have  evaporated; 
and,  in  addition,  he  had  risen  —  Honora  wouldn't  take 
any  just  happen  so:  Jason  was  never  notable  for  humility. 
Yet  who,  even  after  he  had  returned  from  California 
with  his  riches,  would  have  predicted  this  evening?  His 
astonishment  was  as  much  at  himself,  illuminated  by 
extraordinary  events,  as  at  any  exterior  circumstance. 
At  times  he  had  the  ability  to  see  himself,  as  if  from 
the  outside;  and  that  view,  here,  was  amazing.  Why, 
only  a  short  while  ago  he  had  been  drinking  rum  in  the 
shed  back  of  "  Pack  "  Glower's  house,  perhaps  the  least 
desirable  shed  in  Cottarsport. 

Of  one  fact,  however,  he  was  certain  —  no  more  promis 
cuous  draughts  of  Medford.  He  recognized  that  he  had 
taken  so  much  not  from  the  presence  of  desire,  but  a  total 
absence  of  it  as  well  as  any  other  mental  state.  "  Pack  " 
and  his  associates,  too,  were  now  a  thing  of  the  past,  a 
bitterly  rough  and  vacant  element.  The  glass  lamp  on  a 
bureau  was  smoking,  he  stepped  forward  to  lower  the 
wick,  when  a  knock  fell  on  the  door.  A  young  Boston 
relative  of  Honora's  —  a  supercilious  individual  in 
checked  trousers  and  lemon-colored  gloves  —  announced 
that  they  were  waiting  for  Jason  below.  With  a  de 
termined  settling  of  his  shoulders  and  tightly  drawn 
lips,  the  latter  marched  resolutely  forward. 

The  marriage  was  to  be  in  the  chamber  across  from 
the  one  in  which  he  had  generally  sat.  Smilax  and  white 
Killarney  roses  had  been  bowed  over  the  mantel  at  the 
farther  end,  and  there  Jason  found  the  clergyman  wait 
ing.  The  room  was  half  full  of  people  occupying  chairs 

[298] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

brought  from  other  parts  of  the  house;  and  he  was  con 
scious  of  a  sudden  silence,  an  intent,  curious  scrutiny, 
as  he  entered.  An  instinctive  antagonism  to  this  deep 
ened  in  him:  he  felt  that,  with  the  exception  of  his 
father  and  mother,  he  hadn't  a  friend  in  the  room.  Such 
other  local  figures  as  were  there  were  facilely  imitating 
the  cold  stare  of  Honora's  connections.  He  stood  belliger 
ently  facing  Mrs.  Cozzens'  glacial  calm,  the  inspection  of 
a  man  he  had  seen  driving  with  Honora  in  Cottarsport, 
now  accompanied  by  a  pettish,  handsome  girl,  evidently 
his  wife.  His  father's  weathered  countenance,  sunken 
and  dry  on  its  bones,  was  blank,  except  for  a  faint  doubt, 
as  if  some  mistake  had  been  made  which  would  pres 
ently  be  exposed,  sending  them  about  face.  His  mother, 
however,  was  triumphant  pride  and  justification  personi 
fied.  Then  the  music  commenced  —  a  harp,  violin  and 
double  bass. 

The  wedding  ring  firmly  secured,  Jason  stirred  with 
a  feeling  of  increasing  awkwardness.  He  glared  back, 
with  a  protruding  lip,  at  the  fellow  with  the  young 
wife,  at  the  small,  aggressive  group  from  Boston;  and 
then  he  saw  that  Honora  was  in  the  room.  She  was 
coming  slowly  toward  him.  Her  expression  of  absolute 
unconcern  released  him  from  all  petty  annoyance,  any 
thought  of  the  malicious  onlookers.  As  she  stopped  at 
his  side  she  gave  him  a  slight  nod  and  smile;  and  at  that 
moment  a  tremendous,  sheer  admiration  for  her  was  born 
in  him. 

Honora  had  chosen  to  be  unattended  —  she  had  coolly 
observed  that  she  was  well  beyond  the  age  for  such 
sentimentality  —  and  he  realized  that  the  present  would 

[299] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

have  been  a  racking  occasion  for  most  women;  while  it 
was  evident  that  she  was  not  disturbed  in  the  least.  He 
had  a  general  impression  of  sugary  white  satin,  of  her 
composed,  almost  disdainful  face  in  a  cloud  of  veil  with 
little  waxen  orange  flowers,  of  slender  still  hands,  when 
they  turned  from  the  room  to  the  minister. 

They  had  gone  over  the  marriage  service  together,  he 
had  read  it  again  in  the  kitchen  at  home;  he  was  fairly 
familiar  with  its  periods  and  responses,  and  got  through 
with  only  a  slight  hesitation  and  half  prompting.  But 
the  thickness  of  his  voice,  in  comparison  with  Honora's 
open,  decisive  utterance,  vainly  annoyed  him.  He  wanted 
desperately  to  clear  his  throat.  Suddenly  it  was  over, 
and  Honora,  in  a  swirl  of  satin,  was  sinking  to  her  knees. 
Beside  her  he  listened  with  a  feeling  of  comfortable  lull 
to  a  lengthy  prayer. 

Rising,  he  perfunctorily  clasped  a  number  of  indifferent 
palms,  replied  inanely  to  gabbled  expressions  of  good 
will  and  hopes  for  the  future  unmistakably  pessimistic 
in  tone.  Honora  told  him  in  a  rapid  aside  the  names  of 
those  approaching.  She  smiled  radiantly  at  his  father 
and  mother,  leaned  forward  and  whispered  in  the  latter's 
ear;  and  they  followed  the  guests  streaming  into  the  din 
ing  room. 

There  champagne  was  being  opened  by  the  caterer's 
assistants  from  Boston.  There  were  steaming  platters  of 
terrapin  and  oysters  and  fowl.  The  table  bore  pyramids 
of  nuts  and  preserved  fruit,  hot  Cinderellas  in  cups  with 
sugar  and  wine,  black  case  cake,  Savoy  biscuits,  pumpkin 
paste  and  frothed  creams  with  preserved  peach  leaves. 
A  ladened  plate  was  thrust  into  Jason's  hand,  and  he 

[300] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

sat  with  it  in  a  clatter  of  voices  and  topics  that  com 
pletely  ignored  him.  He  was  isolated  in  the  absorption 
of  food  and  wine,  in  a  conversational  exchange  as  strange 
to  him  as  if  it  had  been  spoken  in  a  foreign  language. 

Honora  was  busily  talking  to  young  Mrs.  Fifield  — 
he  remembered  the  name  now.  Apparently  she  had  for 
gotten  his  existence.  At  first  this  annoyed  him;  he  de 
termined  to  force  his  way  into  their  attention,  but  a 
wiser  realization  held  him  where  he  was.  Honora  was 
exactly  right,  he  had  nothing  in  common  with  these  peo 
ple,  probably  not  one  of  them  would  come  into  his  life 
or  house  again.  While  his  wife,  in  the  fact  of  her  mar 
riage,  had  clearly  signified  how  little  important  they  were 
to  her.  His  father  joined  him. 

"  You  made  certain  when  the  New  York  packet 
leaves?"  he  queried. 

"  Everything's  fixed,"  Jason  reassured  him. 

"  Your  mother  wanted  to  see  you.  But  she  got  set 
and  is  kind  of  timid  about  moving."  Jason  rose  promptly, 
and,  with  the  elder,  found  Mrs.  Hazzard  Burrage.  "  I'd 
like  to  have  Honora,  too,"  the  latter  told  them,  and  Jason 
turned  sharply  to  find  her.  When  they  stood  facing  the 
old  couple  his  mother  hesitated  doubtfully,  then  she  put 
out  her  hand  to  the  woman  in  wedding  array.  But 
Honora  ignored  it;  leaning  forward  she  kissed  the  round, 
bright  cheek. 

"  You  have  to  be  patient  with  them  at  times,"  the 
mother  said,  looking  up  anxiously. 

"  I'm  afraid  Jason  will  need  that  warning,"  Honora 
replied;  "he  is  a  very  imprudent  man." 

[301] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 


XVI 

Jason's  mind  returned  to  this  later,  sitting  in  the  house 
that  had  been  the  Canderays',  but  which  now  was  his 
too.  Honora's  remark  to  his  mother  had  been  clear  in 
itself,  but  it  suggested  wide  speculations  beyond  his  grasp. 
For  instance  —  why,  after  all,  had  Honora  married  him? 
He  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  not  the  result 
of  any  overwhelming  feeling  for  him.  The  manner  of 
their  wedding,  the  complete  absence  of  the  emotion  sup 
posed  to  be  the  incentive  of  such  consummations,  Honora 
herself,  all  denied  any  effort  to  fix  such  a  personally  satis 
factory  cause.  That  she  might  have  had  no  other  op 
portunity  —  Honora  was  not  as  young  as  she  had  been  — 
he  dismissed  as  obviously  absurd.  Why 

His  gaze  was  fastened  upon  the  carpet,  and  he  saw 
that  time  and  the  passage  of  feet  had  worn  away  the 
design.  He  looked  about  the  room,  and  was  surprised 
to  discover  a  general  dinginess  which  he  had  never  no 
ticed  before.  He  said  nothing,  but,  in  his  movements 
about  the  house,  examined  the  furnishings  and  walls,  and 
an  astonishing  fact  was  thrust  upon  him  —  the  cele 
brated  dwelling  was  grievously  run  down.  It  was  plain 
that  no  money  had  been  spent  on  it  for  years.  The 
chaise,  too,  and  the  astrakhan  collar  on  Coggs'  coat,  were 
worn  out. 

He  considered  this  at  breakfast  —  his  wife  behind  a 
tall  Sheffield  coffee  urn  —  and  he  was  aware  of  the  cold 
edge  of  a  distasteful  possibility.  The  thought  enveloped 
him  insidiously,  like  the  fog  which  often  rolled  through 

[302] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

the  Narrows  and  over  the  town,  that  the  Canderays  were 
secretly  impoverished,  and  Honora  had  married  him  only 
for  his  money.  Jason  was  not  resentful  of  this  in  it 
self,  since  he  had  been  searching  for  a  motive  he  could 
accept,  but  it  struck  him  in  a  peculiarly  vulnerable 
spot  —  his  admiration  for  his  wife,  for  Honora.  The 
idea,  although  he  assured  himself  that  the  thing  was 
readily  comprehensible,  somehow  managed  to  dimmish 
her,  to  tarnish  the  luster  she  held  for  him.  It  was  far 
beneath  the  elevation  on  which  Cottarsport  had  placed 
the  Canderays;  and  he  suffered  a  distinct  sense  of  loss, 
a  feeling  of  the  staleness  and  disappointment  of  living. 

The  more  he  considered  this  explanation  the  more  he 
was  convinced  of  its  probability.  A  great  deal  of  his 
genuine  warmth  in  his  marriage  evaporated.  Still  — 
Honora  had  married  him,  she  had  given  herself  in  re 
turn  for  what  material  advantage  he  might  bring;  and  he 
would  have  to  perform  his  part  thoroughly.  He  ought 
to  have  known  that 

What  he  must  do  now  was  to  save  them  both  from  any 
painful  revelation  by  keeping  forever  hid  that  he  was 
aware  of  her  purpose,  he  must  never  expose  himself  by 
a  word  or  act;  and  he  must  make  her  understand  that 
whatever  he  had  was  absolutely  hers.  It  would  be  neces 
sary  for  her  to  go  to  the  money  with  entire  freedom  and 
without  any  accounting. 

This,  he  found,  was  not  so  easy  to  establish  as  he 
thought.  Honora  was  his  wife,  but  nevertheless  there 
was  a  well  marked  reticence  between  them,  a  formal  nicety 
to  which  he  was  both  susceptible  and  heartily  in  accord. 
He  couldn't  just  thrust  his  fortune  before  her  on  the 

[303] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

table.  He  hesitated  through  the  day,  on  the  verge  of 
various  blunders;  and  then,  in  the  evening,  said  in  a 
studied  casuality  of  manner: 

"  What  do  you  think  about  fixing  some  of  the  rooms 
over  new  ?  You  might  get  tired  of  seeing  the  same  things 
for  so  long.  I  saw  real  elegant  furniture  in  Boston." 

She  looked  about  indifferently.  "  I  think  I  wouldn't 
like  it  changed,"  she  remarked,  almost  in  the  manner  of 
a  defense.  "  I  suppose  it  does  seem  worn  to  you;  but 
I'm  used  to  it;  there  are  so  many  associations.  I  am 
certain  I'd  be  lost  in  new  hangings." 

Jason  was  so  completely  silenced  by  her  reply  that  he 
felt  he  must  have  shown  some  confusion,  for  her  gaze 
deliberately  turned  to  him.  "  Is  there  any  particular 
thing  you  would  like  repaired  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I  think  it's 
all  splendid.  I  wouldn't  change  a  curtain,  only  — 

but "  he  cursed  himself  for  a  clumsy  fool  while 

Honora  continued  to  study  him.  He  endeavored  to  shield 
himself  behind  the  trivial  business  of  lighting  a  cheroot; 
but  he  felt  Honora's  query  searching  him  out.  Finally, 
to  his  extreme  dismay,  he  heard  her  say : 

"  Jason,  I  believe  you  think  I  married  you  for  money !  " 

Pretense,  he  realized,  would  be  no  good  now. 

"  Something  like  that  did  occur  to  me,"  he  acknowl 
edged  desperately. 

"Really,"  she  told  him  sharply.  "I  could  be  cross 
very  easily.  You  are  too  stupid.  Father  did  wonder 
fully  well  on  his  voyages,  and  his  profit  was  invested  by 
Frederic  Cozzens,  one  of  the  shrewdest  financiers  of  his 

[304] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

day.  I  have  twice,  probably  three  times,  as  much  as 
you." 

She  confronted  him  with  a  faintly  sparkling  resentment. 
However,  the  pleasure,  the  reassurance,  in  what  he  had 
just  heard  made  him  indifferent  to  the  rest.  It  was 
impossible  now  to  comprehend  how  he  had  been  such  a 
block!  He  even  smiled  at  her,  which,  he  was  delighted 
to  observe,  obviously  puzzled  her. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Jason,  and  perhaps  it 
is  too  late  already,  that  I  thought  I  married  you  because 
I  was  lonely,  because  I  feared  the  future.  Anyhow,  that's 
what  I  told  myself  the  night  I  sent  for  you.  You  might 
have  a  right  to  complain  very  bitterly  about  it." 

"  If  I  have  I  won't,"  he  assured  her  cheerfully. 

"  I  thought  that  then;  but  now  I  am  not  at  all  sure. 
It  no  longer  seems  so  simple,  so  easily  explained.  I 
used  to  feel  that  I  understood  myself  very  thoroughly, 
I  could  look  inside  and  see  what  was  there;  but  in  the 
last  month  I  haven't  been  able  to;  and  it  is  very  dis 
turbing." 

"  Anyhow  we're  married,"  he  announced  comfortably. 

"  That's  a  beautiful  way  to  feel,"  she  remarked.  "  I 
appear  to  get  less  sure  of  things  as  I  grow  older,  which 
is  pathetic." 

He  wondered  what,  exactly,  she  meant  by  this.  Honora 
said  a  great  many  little  things  which,  their  meaning  es 
caping  him,  gave  him  momentary  doubts.  He  discovered 
that  she  had  a  habit  of  saying  things  indirectly,  and  that, 
as  the  seriousness  of  the  occasion  increased,  her  manner 
became  lighter  and  he  could  depend  less  on  the  mere  or- 

[305] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

der  of  her  words.  This  continually  disconcerted  him,  put 
him  on  the  defensive  and  at  small  disadvantages:  he 
was  never  quite  at  ease  with  Honora. 

Obversely  —  the  ugly  shade  of  mercenary  purpose  dis 
pelled —  close  at  hand  his  admiration  for  her  grew. 
Every  detail  of  her  living  was  as  fine  as  that  publicly 
exposed  in  the  drawing  room.  She  was  not  rigidly  and 
impossibly  perfect,  in,  for  instance,  the  inflexible  atti 
tude  of  Olive  Stanes;  Honora  had  a  very  human  impa 
tience,  she  could  be  disagreeable,  he  found,  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  she  undoubtedly  felt  herself  superior  to  the 
commonalty  of  life.  But  in  the  ordering  of  her  person 
there  was  a  wonderfully  exact  delicacy  and  fragrant 
charm.  Just  as  she  had  no  formal  manner  so,  he  dis 
covered,  she  possessed  no  "good"  clothes;  she  dressed 
evidently  from  some  inner  necessity,  and  not  merely  for 
the  sake  of  impression.  She  had,  too,  a  remarkable 
vigor  of  expression;  Honora  was  not  above  swearing  at 
contradictory  circumstance;  and  she  was  so  free  of  small 
pruderies  that  often  she  became  a  cause  of  embarrassment 
to  him.  At  times  he  would  tell  himself  uneasily  that  her 
conduct  was  not  quite  ladylike;  but  at  the  same  instant 
his  amusement  in  her  would  mount  until  it  threatened 
him  with  laughter. 

There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  learned  from  Honora,  he 
told  himself;  and  then  he  would  speculate  whether  he 
were  progressing  in  that  acquisition;  and  whether  she 
were  happy;  no,  not  happy,  but  contented.  Ignorant  of 
her  reason  for  marrying  he  vaguely  dreaded  the  possibility 
of  its  departure,  mysterious  as  it  had  come,  leaving  her 
regarding  him  with  surprise  and  disdain.  He  tried  des- 

[306] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

perately,  consciously,  to  hold  her  interest  and  esteem. 
That  was  the  base  of  his  conception  of  their  married 
existence,  which,  then,  he  was  entirely  willing  to  accept. 

XVII 

However,  as  the  weeks  multiplied  without  bringing  him 
any  corresponding  increase  in  the  knowledge  of  both 
Honora  and  their  true  situation,  he  was  aware  of  a  dis 
turbance  born  of  his  very  pleasure  in  her;  an  uncom 
fortable  feeling  of  insecurity  fastened  upon  him.  But 
all  this  he  was  careful  to  keep  hidden.  There  was  evi 
dently  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  Cottarsport  of  the  envi- 
ableness  of  his  position  —  with  all  that  gold,  wedded  to 
Honora  Canderay,  living  in  the  Canderay  mansion.  The 
more  solid  portion  of  the  town  gave  him  a  studied  con 
sideration  denied  to  the  mere  acquisition  of  wealth;  and 
the  rough  element,  once  his  companion  but  now  relentlessly 
held  at  a  distance,  regarded  him  with  a  loud  disdain 
fully  as  humanly  flattering.  Sometimes  with  Honora 
he  passed  the  latter,  and  they  grumbled  an  obscure  ac 
knowledgment  of  his  curt  greeting;  when  he  was  alone, 
they  openly  disparaged  his  attainments  and  qualified 
pride. 

There  were  "  Pack "  Glower,  an  able  seaman  whose 
indolent  character  had  dissipated  his  opportunities  of  em 
ployment  without  harming  his  slow,  powerful  body. 
Emery  Radlaw,  the  brother  of  the  apothecary  and  a 
graduate  of  Williams  College,  a  man  of  vanished  refine 
ments  and  taker  of  strange  drugs;  as  thin  and  erratically 
rapid  in  movements  as  Glower  was  slow.  Steven,  an  in- 
[307] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

credibly  soiled  Swede.  John  Vleet,  the  master  and  part 
owner  of  a  fishing  schooner,  a  capable  individual  on  the 
sea  but  an  insanely  violent  drunkard  on  land.  There 
were  others,  all  widely  different  but  alike  in  the  bitter 
ness  of  a  common  failure  and  the  habit  of  assuaging 
doubtfully  self-placed  opinion,  of  ministering  to  crawling 
nerves,  with  highly  potential  stimulation. 

Jason  passed  "  Pack  "  and  Emery  Radlaw  on  a  day 
of  late  March,  and  a  mocking  and  purposely  audible 
aside  almost  brought  him  to  an  adequate  reply.  He  had 
disposed  of  worse  men  than  these  in  California  and  the 
Isthmus.  His  arrogant  temper  rose  and  threatened  to 
master  him;  but  something  more  powerful  held  him 
steadily  and  silently  on  his  way.  This  was  his  measure 
less  admiration  for  Honora,  his  determination  to  involve 
her  in  nothing  that  would  detract  from  her  fineness  and 
erect  pride.  Brawling  on  the  street  would  not  do  for  her 
husband.  He  must  give  her  no  cause  to  lessen  what  in 
comprehensible  feeling,  liking,  she  might  have  for  him, 
give  life  to  no  regrets  for  a  hasty  and  perhaps  only  half 
considered  act.  After  this,  in  passing  any  of  his  late, 
temporary  associates,  he  failed  to  express  even  the  per 
functory  consciousness  of  their  being. 

XVIII 

In  April  he  was  obliged  to  admit  to  himself  that  he 
knew  no  more  of  Honora's  attitude  toward  him  than  he 
had  on  the  day  of  their  wedding.  He  recognized  that  she 
made  no  show  of  emotion,  it  was  an  essential  part  of  her 
to  seem  at  all  times  unmoved.  That  was  well  enough  for 

[308] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

the  face  she  turned  toward  the  world;  but  directed  at  him, 
her  husband,  its  enigmatic  quality  began  to  obsess  his 
mind.  What  Honora  thought  of  him,  why  she  had  mar 
ried  him,  became  an  almost  continuous  question. 

It  bred  an  increasing  sense  of  instability  that  became 
loud,  defiant.  More  than  once  he  was  at  the  point  of 
sel f -betrayal :  query,  demand,  objection,  would  rise  on 
a  temporary  angry  flood  to  his  lips.  But,  struggling, 
behind  a  face  as  unmoved  as  Honora's  own,  he  would 
suppress  his  resentment,  the  sense  of  injury,  and  smoke 
with  the  appearance  of  the  greatest  placidity. 

His  regard  for  his  wife  placed  an  extraordinary  check 
on  his  impulses  and  utterance.  He  deliberated  carefully 
over  his  speech,  watched  her  with  an  attention  not  far 
from  a  concealed  anxiety,  and  was  quick  to  absorb  any 
small  conventions  unconsciously  indicated  by  her  re 
marks.  She  never  instructed  or  held  anything  over  him; 
he  would  have  been  acutely  sensitive  to  any  air  of  superior 
ity,  and  immediately  antagonized.  But  Honora  was  en 
tirely  free  from  pretentions  of  that  variety;  she  was  as 
clear  and  honest  as  a  goblet  of  water. 

Jason's  regard  for  her  grew  pace  by  pace  with  the  feel 
ing  of  baffling  doubt.  He  was  passing  through  the  pub 
lic  square,  and  his  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  faint 
drifting  sweetness.  "  I  believe  the  lilacs  are  out,"  he 
said  unconsciously  aloud  and  stopping.  His  surround 
ing  was  remarkably  serene,  withdrawn  —  the  courthouse, 
a  small  block  of  brick  with  white  corniced  windows,  flat 
Ionic  portico  and  slatted  wood  lantern  with  a  bell,  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  grassy  common  shut  in  by  an  ir 
regular  rectangle  of  dwellings  with  low  eaves  and  gardens. 

[309] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

The  sun  shone  with  a  beginning  warmth  in  a  vague  sky 
that  intensified  the  early  green.  It  seemed  that  he  could 
see,  against  a  house,  the  lavender  blur  of  the  lilac  blos 
soms. 

Then  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  figure  of  a  man, 
at  once  strange  and  familiar,  coming  toward  him  with  a 
dragging  gait.  Jason  studied  the  other  until  a  sudden 
recognition  clouded  his  countenance,  filled  him  with  a 
swift,  unpleasant  surprise.  He  had  never  believed  that  — 

"  Thomas !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Whenever  did  you  get 
back?" 

"  Yesterday,"  said  Thomas  Cast. 

Well,  here  was  Thomas  returned  from  California  like 
himself.  Yet  the  most  negligent  view  of  the  latter  re 
vealed  that  there  was  a  vast  difference  between  Jason  and 
this  last  Argonaut  —  Thomas  Cast's  loosely  hung  jaw, 
which  gave  to  his  countenance  an  air  of  irresolution,  was 
now  exaggerated  by  an  aspect  of  utter  defeat.  His  ill  con 
ditioned  clothes,  sodden  brogans  and  stringy  handker 
chief  still  knotted  miner-fashion  about  his  throat,  all  mul 
tiplied  the  fact  of  failure  proclaimed  by  his  attitude. 

"  How  did  you  strike  it?  "  Jason  uselessly  asked. 

"What  chance  has  the  prospector  today?"  the  other 
heatedly  and  indirectly  demanded.  "  At  first  a  man 
could  pan  out  something  for  himself;  but  now  it's  all 
companies,  all  capital.  The  state's  interfered  too,  claims 
are  being  held  up  in  court  while  their  owners  might 
starve,  there  are  new  laws  and  trimmings  every  week. 
I  struck  it  rich  on  the  Reys,  but  I  was  drove  out  before 
I  could  get  my  stakes  in.  They  tell  me  you  did  good." 

"  At  last,"  Jason  replied. 

[310] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  And  married  Honora  Canderay,  too." 

The  other  assented  shortly. 

"  Some  are  shot  with  luck,"  Thomas  Gast  proclaimed; 
"  they'd  fall  and  skin  their  face  on  a  nugget." 

"  How  did  you  come  back?  " 

"  Worked  my  passage  in  a  crazy  clipper  with  moon- 
sails  and  the  halliards  padlocked  to  the  rail.  Carried 
away  the  foretopmast  and  yard  off  the  Horn  and  ran 
from  port  to  port  in  a  hundred  and  four  days." 

The  conversation  dwindled  and  expired.  Thomas 
Gast  gazed  about  moodily,  and  Jason,  with  a  tight  mouth, 
nodded  and  moved  on.  His  mind  turned  back  abruptly 
to  Eddie  Lukens,  the  man  who  had  robbed  him  of  his 
find  in  the  early  days  of  cradle  mining,  the  man  he  had 
killed. 

He  had  said  nothing  of  this  to  Honora;  the  experience 
with  Olive  Stanes  had  convinced  him  of  the  advisability 
of  keeping  past  accident  where,  he  now  repeated,  it  be 
longed.  He  despaired  of  ever  being  able,  in  Cottars- 
port,  to  explain  the  place  and  times  that  had  made  his 
act  comprehensible.  How  could  he  picture,  here,  the 
narrow  ravines  cut  by  swift  rivers  from  the  stupendous 
slopes  and  forests  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the  isolation  of 
a  handful  of  men  with  their  tents  by  a  plunging  stream  in 
a  rift  so  deep  that  there  would  be  only  a  brief  glimmer 
of  sunlight  at  noon?  And,  failing  that,  the  ignorant 
could  never  grasp  the  significance  of  the  stillness,  the 
timeless  shadows,  which  the  miners  penetrated  in  their 
madness  for  gold.  They'd  never  realize  the  strangling 
passion  of  this  search  in  a  wilderness  without  habitation 
or  law  or  safety.  They  could  not  understand  the  primary 

[311] 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

justice  of  such  rude  courts  as  the  miners  were  able  to 
maintain  on  the  more  populous  outskirts  of  the  region. 

He,  Jason  Burrage,  had  been  tried  by  a  jury  for  kill 
ing  Eddie  Lukens,  and  had  been  exonerated.  It  had 
been  months  since  he  had  reiterated  this  dreary  and  only 
half  satisfying  formula.  The  inner  necessity  filled  him 
with  a  shapeless  concern  such  as  might  have  been  caused 
by  a  constant,  unnatural  shadow  flickering  out  at  his 
back.  He  almost  wished  that  he  had  told  Honora  at 
the  beginning;  and  then  he  fretfully  cursed  the  incer 
titude  of  life  —  whatever  he  did  appeared,  shortly  after, 
wrong.  But  it  was  obvious  that  he  couldn't  go  to  her 
with  the  story  today;  the  only  time  for  that  had  been  be 
fore  his  marriage;  now  it  would  have  the  look  of  a  con 
fession  of  weakness,  opportunely  timed;  and  he  could 
think  of  nothing  more  calculated  to  antagonize  Honora 
than  such  a  crumbling  admission. 

All  this  had  been  re-animated  by  the  mere  presence  of 
Thomas  Gast  in  Cqttarsport;  certainly,  he  concluded,  an 
insufficient  reason  for  his  troubling.  Gast  had  been  a 
miner,  too,  he  was  familiar  with  the  conditions  in  the 
West.  .  .  .  There  was  a  great  probability  that  he  hadn't 
even  heard  of  the  unfortunate  affair;  while  Olive  Stanes 
would  be  dragged  to  death  rather  than  garble  a  word  of 
what  he  had  told  her:  Jason  willingly  acknowledged  this 
of  Olive.  He  resolutely  banished  the  whole  complica 
tion  from  his  mind;  and,  walking  with  Honora  after 
supper  in  the  garden  back  of  their  house,  he  was  again 
absorbed  in  her  vivid  delicate  charm. 

The  garden  was  deep  and  narrow,  a  flight  of  terraces 
connected  by  a  flagged  path  and  steps.  At  the  bottom 

[312] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

were  the  bergamot  pear  trees  that  had  been  Ithiel  Can- 
deray's  especial  charge  in  his  last,  retired  years.  Their 
limbs,  faintly  blurred  with  new  foliage,  rose  above  the 
wall,  against  a  tranquil  evening  sky  with  a  white  slip 
of  May  moon.  The  peace  momentarily  disturbed  in  Jason 
Burrage's  heart  flooded  back,  a  sense  of  great  well-being 
settled  over  him.  Honora  rested  her  hand  within  his 
arm  at  an  inequality  of  the  stone  walk. 

"  I  am  really  a  very  bad  wife,  Jason,"  she  said  sud 
denly;  "  self-absorbed  and  inattentive." 

"  You  suit  me,"  he  replied  inadequately.  He  was 
extraordinarily  moved  by  her  remark:  she  had  never  be 
fore  even  suggested  that  she  was  conscious  of  obligation. 
He  wanted  to  put  into  words  some  of  the  warmth^  of 
feeling  which  filled  his  heart,  but  suitable  speech  evaded 
him.  He  could  not  shake  off  the  fear  that  such  protesta 
tions  might  be  displeasing  to  her  restrained  being.  Mov 
ing  slightly  away  from  him  she  seemed,  in  the  soft  gloom, 
more  wonderful  than  ever.  Set  in  white  against  the 
depths  of  the  garden,  her  face,  dimly  visible,  appeared 
to  be  without  its  customary,  faintly  mocking  smile. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Jason,"  she  continued,  "  how  I 
once  said  I  thought  I  was  marrying  you  because  I  was 
lonely,  and  that  I  found  out  it  wasn't  so;  I  didn't  know 
why "  she  paused. 

He  was  enveloped  by  an  intense  eagerness  to  hear  her 
to  the  end:  it  might  be  that  something  beyond  his  great 
est  hopes  was  to  follow.  But  disappointment  overtook 
him. 

"  I  was  certain  I'd  see  more  clearly  into  myself  soon, 
but  I  haven't;  it's  been  useless  trying.  And  I've  de- 

[313] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

cided  to  do  this  —  to  give  up  thinking  about  things  for 
myself,  and  to  wait  for  you  to  show  me." 

"  But  I  can't  do  that,"  he  protested,  facing  her;  "  more 
than  half  the  time  I  wonder  over  almost  that  same  ques 
tion  —  why  you  ever  married  me?  " 

"  This  is  a  frightful  situation,"  she  observed  with  a 
return  of  her  familiar  manner;  "  two  mature  people  joined 
for  life,  and  neither  with  the  slightest  idea  of  the  reason. 
Anyhow  I  have  given  it  up.  ...  I  suppose  I'll  die  in 
ignorance.  Perhaps  I  was  too  old " 

He  interrupted  her  with  an  uncustomary  incivility,  a 
heated  denunciation  of  what  she  had  been  about  to  say. 

"  So  you  are  not  sorry,"  he  remarked  after  a  little. 

"  No,"  she  answered  slowly,  "  and  I'm  certain  I  shan't 
be.  I'm  not  that  sort  of  person.  I  would  go  down  to 
ruin  sooner  than  regret."  She  said  no  more,  but  went 
into  the  house,  leaving  Jason  in  the  potent  spring  night. 

There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  about  the  lilacs,  the 
air  was  ladened  with  their  scent.  An  entire  hedge  of 
them  must  have  blossomed  as  he  was  standing  there.  He 
moved  to  the  terrace  below:  there  might  be  buds  on  the 
pear  trees.  But  it  was  impossible  to  see  the  limbs.  How 
could  Honora  expect  him  to  make  their  marriage  clear? 
He  had  never  before  seen  her  face  so  serene.  He  thought 
that  he  heard  a  vague  stir  outside  the  wall,  and  he  re 
membered  the  presence  of  a  semi-public  path.  Now  there 
was  a  cautious  mutter  of  voices.  He  advanced  a  step, 
then  stopped  at  a  scrambling  of  shoes  against  the  wall. 
A  vague  form  shouldered  into  view,  momentarily  cling 
ing  above  him,  and  a  harsh  voice  cried: 

"Murderer!" 

[314] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 


XIX 

Even  above  the  discordant  clash  of  his  startled  sensi 
bilities  rose  the  fear,  instantaneously  born,  that  Honora 
had  heard.  All  the  vague  uneasiness  which  had  possessed 
him  at  Thomas  Cast's  return  solidified  into  a  recognizable, 
leaden  dread  —  the  conviction  that  his  wife  must  learn 
the  story  of  his  misadventure  told  with  animus  and 
lies.  Then  a  more  immediate  dread  held  him  rigidly  at 
tentive:  there  might  be  a  second  cry,  a  succession  of  them 
shouted  discordantly  to  the  sky.  Honora  would  come  out, 
the  servants  gather,  while  that  accusing  voice,  indistin 
guishable  and  disembodied  by  the  night,  proclaimed  his 
error.  This  was  not  the  shooting  of  Eddie  Lukens,  but 
the  neglect  to  comprehend  Honora  Canderay. 

Absolute  silence  followed.  He  made  a  motion  toward 
the  wall,  but,  oppressed  by  the  futility  of  such  an  act, 
arrested  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  step  and  stood  with  a 
foot  extended.  The  stillness  seemed  to  thicken  the  air 
until  he  could  hardly  breathe;  he  was  seized  by  a  sullen 
anger  at  the  events  which  had  gathered  to  betray  him. 
The  crying  tones  had  been  like  a  chemical  acting  on  his 
complexity,  changing  him  to  an  entirely  different  entity, 
darkening  his  being;  the  peace  and  fragrance  of  the 
night  were  destroyed  by  the  anxiety  that  now  sat  upon 
him. 

Convinced  that  nothing  more  was  to  follow  here,  he  was 
both  impelled  into  the  house,  to  Honora,  and  held  mo 
tionless  by  the  fear  of  seeing  her  turn  toward  him  with 
her  familiar  light  surprise  and  a  question.  However, 

[315] 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

he  slowly  retraced  his  way  over  the  terraces,  through  a 
trellis  hung  with  grape  vines,  and  into  the  hall.  As  he 
hoped,  Honora  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  dwelling. 
She  had  heard  nothing.  Jason  sat  down  heavily,  his  gaze 
lowered  and  somber. 

The  feeling  smote  him  that  he  should  tell  Honora  of 
the  whole  miserable  business  at  once,  make  what  excuse 
for  himself  was  possible,  and  prepare  her  for  the  in 
evitable  public  revelation.  He  pronounced  her  name, 
with  the  intention  of  doing  this;  but  she  showed  him  such 
a  tranquil,  superfine  face  that  he  was  unable  to  proceed. 
Her  interrogation  held  for  a  moment  and  then  left  him, 
redirected  to  a  minute,  colorful  square  of  glass  beads. 

A  multiplication  of  motives  kept  him  silent,  but  prin 
cipal  among  them  was  the  familiar  shrinking  from  ap 
pearing  to  his  wife  in  any  little  or  mean  guise.  It  was 
precisely  into  such  a  peril  that  he  had  been  forced.  He 
felt,  now,  that  she  would  overlook  a  murder  such  as  the 
one  he  had  committed  far  more  easily  than  an  intangible 
error  of  spirit.  He  could  actually  picture  Honora,  in  his 
place,  shooting  Eddie  Lukens;  but  he  couldn't  imagine 
her  in  his  humiliating  situation  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

He  turned  to  the,  consideration  of  whom  it  might  be 
that  had  called  over  the  wall,  and  immediately  recognized 
that  it  was  one  of  a  small  number,  one  of  "  Pack " 
Glower's  gang:  Thomas  Gast  would  have  gravitated 
quickly  to  their  company,  and  their  resentment  of  his, 
Jason  Burrage's,  place  in  life  must  have  been  nicely 
increased  by  Gast's  jealousy.  The  latter,  Jason  knew,  had 
not  washed  an  honest  pan  of  gravel  in  his  journey  and 
search  for  a  mythical,  easy  wealth;  he  had  hardly  left  the 

[316] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

littered  fringe  of  San  Francisco,  but  had  filled  progres 
sively  menial  places  in  the  less  admirable  resorts  and 
activities. 

With  so  much  established  beyond  doubt  he  was  con 
fronted  by  the  necessity  for  immediate  action,  the  possi 
bility  of  yet  averting  all  that  threatened  him,  of  preserv 
ing  his  good  opinion  in  Honora's  eyes.  Glower  and 
Emery  Radlaw  and  the  rest,  with  neither  the  balance  of 
property  nor  position,  lawless  and  inflamed  with  drink, 
were  a  difficult  opposition.  He  repeated  that  he  had  mas 
tered  worse,  but  out  in  California,  where  a  man  had  been 
nakedly  a  man ;  and  then  he  hadn't  been  married.  There 
he  would  have  found  them  at  once,  and  an  explosion  of 
will,  perhaps  of  powder,  would  have  soon  cleared  the 
atmosphere.  But  in  Cottarsport,  with  so  much  to  keep 
intact,  he  was  all  but  powerless. 

Yet,  the  following  day,  when  he  saw  the  apothecary's 
brother  enter  the  combined  drug  and  liquor  store,  he 
followed;  and,  to  his  grim  satisfaction,  found  Thomas 
Gast  already  inside.  The  apothecary  gave  Jason  an  in 
hospitable  stare,  but  the  latter  ignored  him,  striding 
toward  Gast.  "  Just  what  is  it  you've  brought  East  about 
me  ?  "  he  demanded. 

The  other  avoided  the  query,  his  gaze  shifting  over 
the  floor.  "Well?"  Jason  insisted,  after  a  pause. 
Thomas  Gast  was  leaning  against  a  high  counter  at  one 
side,  behind  which  shelves  held  various  bottles  and  paper 
boxes  and  tins.  The  counter  itself  was  ladened  with 
scales  and  a  mortar,  powders  and  vividly  striped  candy 
in  tall  glass  jars. 

"  You  know  well  as  I  do,"  Gast  finally  admitted. 
[317] 


GOLD     AND     IRON 

"  Then  we're  both  certain  there's  no  reason  for  name 
calling  over  my  back  wall." 

"You  shot  him,  didn't  you?  "  the  other  asked  thinly. 
"  You  can't  get  away  from  the  fact  that  you  killed  a 
pardner." 

"  I  did,"  said  Jason  Burrage  harshly.  "  He  robbed 
me.  But  I  didn't  shout  thief  at  him  from  the  safety  of 
the  dark;  it  was  right  after  dinner,  the  middle  of  the 
day.  He  was  ready  first,  too;  but  I  shot  him.  Can 
you  get  anything  from  that  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  realize  this  isn't  San  Francisco,"  Rad- 
law,  the  drug  taker,  put  in.  "  A  man  couldn't  be  coolly 
derringered  in  Cottarsport.  There's  law  here,  there's 
order."  He  had  a  harried  face,  dulled  eyes  under  a  fine 
brow,  a  tremulous  flabby  mouth,  with  white  crystals  of 
powder  adhering  to  its  corners,  and  a  countenance  like 
the  yellow  oilskins  of  the  fishermen. 

Jason  turned  darkly  in  the  latter's  direction.  "  What 
have  you  or  Glower  got  to  do  with  law?  " 

"  Not  only  them,"  the  apothecary  interposed,  "  but  all 
the  other  men  of  the  town  are  interested  in  keeping  it 
orderly.  We'll  have  no  western  rowdyism  in  Cottars- 
port." 

"  Then  hear  this,"  Jason  again  addressed  Thomas 
Cast,  "  see  that  you  tell  the  truth  and  all  the  truth.  My 
past  belongs  to  me,  and  I  don't  aim  to  have  it  maligned  by 
any  empty  liar  back  from  the  Coast.  And  either  of  you 
Radlaws  —  I'm  not  going  to  be  blanketed  by  the  town 
drunkards  or  old  women,  either.  If  I  have  shot  one  man 
I  can  shoot  another,  and  I  care  this  much  for  your 
talk  —  if  any  of  this  muck  is  allowed  to  annoy  Mrs.  Bur- 

[318] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

rage  111  kill  whoever  starts  it,  spang  in  the  middle  of 
day." 

"  That's  where  it  gets  him,"  the  ex-scholar  stated. 

"  Just  there,"  Jason  agreed;  "  and  this  Gast,  who  has 
brought  so  much  back  from  California,  can  tell  you  this, 
too  —  that  I  had  the  name  of  finishing  what  I  began." 

But,  once  more  outside,  alone,  his  appearance  of  resolu 
tion  vanished:  the  merest,  untraceable  rumor  would  be 
sufficient  to  accomplish  all  that  he  feared,  damage  him 
irreparably  with  Honora.  He  was  far  older  in  spirit 
and  body  than  he  had  been  back  on  Indian  Bar;  he  had 
passed  the  tumultuous  years  of  living.  The  labor  and 
privation,  the  continuous  immersion  in  frigid  streams,  had 
lessened  his  vitality,  sapped  his  ability  for  conflict.  All 
that  he  now  wished  was  the  happiness  of  his  wife,  Honora, 
and  the  quietude  of  their  big,  peaceful  house;  the  winter 
evenings  by  the  Franklin  stove  and  the  spring  evenings 
with  the  windows  open  and  the  candles  guttering  in  the 
mild,  lilac-hung  air. 

XX 

Together  with  his  uncertainty  the  pleasure  in  the  sheer 
fact  of  his  wife  increased;  and  with  it  the  old  wonderment 
at  their  situation  returned.  What,  for  instance,  did  she 
mean  by  saying  that  he  must  explain  her  to  herself?  He 
tried  again  all  the  conventional  reasons  for  marriage 
without  satisfaction,  the  sentimental  and  material  equally 
failed.  Jason  felt  that  if  he  could  penetrate  this  mys 
tery  his  grasp  on  actuality  would  be  enormously  improved; 
he  might,  with  such  knowledge,  successfully  defy  Thomas 

[319] 


COLD    AND    IRON 

Gast  and  all  that  past  which  equally  threatened  to  reach 
out  destructively  into  the  future. 

His  happiness,  in  its  new  state  of  fragility,  became 
infinitely  precious;  a  thing  to  dwell  on  at  nights,  to  pon 
der  over  walking  through  the  town.  Then,  disagreeably 
aware  of  what  overshadowed  him,  he  would  watch  such 
passersby  as  spoke,  searching  for  some  sign  of  the  spread 
ing  of  his  old  fault.  Often  he  imagined  that  he  saw  such 
an  indication,  and  he  would  hurry  home,  in  a  panic  of 
haste  —  which  was,  too,  intense  reluctance  —  to  discover 
if  Honora  yet  knew. 

He  approached  her  a  hundred  times  determined  to  end 
his  misery  of  suspense,  and  face  the  incalculable  weight 
of  her  disdain;  but  on  each  occasion  he  failed  as  he  had 
at  the  first.  Now  his  admittance  seemed  too  damned 
roundabout;  in  an  unflattering  way  forced  upon  him. 
His  position  was  too  insecure,  he  told  himself.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  the  threat  in  the  apothecary's  shop  would  be  suffi 
cient  to  shut  the  mouth  of  rumor.  It  had  not  been  empty; 
he  was  still  capable  of  uncalculating  rage.  How  closely 
was  Honora  bound  to  him  ?  What  did  she  think  of  him 
at  heart? 

He  couldn't  bear  to  remember  how  he  had  laid  open 
her  dignity,  the  dignity  and  position  of  the  Canderays 
in  Cottarsport,  to  whispered  vilification.  Connected  with 
him  she  was  being  discussed  in  "  Pack  "  Glower's  shanty. 
His  mind  revolved  endlessly  about  the  same  few  topics,  he 
elaborated  and  discarded  countless  schemes  to  secure 
Honora  —  he  even  considered  giving  Thomas  Gast  a  sum 
of  money  to  repair  what  harm  the  latter  had  wrought. 
Useless  —  his  danger  flourished  on  hatred  and  envy  and 

[320] 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

malice.  However  exculpable  the  killing  of  Eddie  Lukens 
had  been,  the  results  were  immeasurably  unfortunate,  for 
a  simple  act  of  violent,  local  justice. 

They  were  in  the  chaise  above  Cottarsport;  Coggs  had 
died  through  the  winter,  and  his  place  been  taken  by  a 
young  coachman  from  the  city.  The  horses  rested  som 
nolently  in  their  harness,  the  bright  bits  of  rubbed  silver 
plate  shining.  Honora  was  looking  out  over  the  har 
bor,  a  gentian  blue  expanse.  "  Good  Heavens,"  she  cried 
with  sudden  energy,  "  I  am  getting  old  at  a  sickening 
rate.  Only  last  year  the  schooners  and  sea  made  me  as 
restless  as  a  gull.  I  wanted  to  sail  to  the  farthest  places; 
but  now  the  boats  are  —  are  no  more  than  boats.  It 
fatigues  me  to  think  of  their  jumping  about;  and  I 
haven't  walked  down  to  the  wharves  for  six  weeks.  Do 
I  look  a  haggard  fright?  " 

"  You  seem  as  young  as  before  I  went  to  California," 
he  replied  simply.  She  did.  A  strand  of  hair  had 
slipped  from  its  net,  and  wavered  across  her  flawless 
cheek,  her  lips  were  bright  and  smooth,  her  shoulders 
slimly  square. 

"  You're  a  marvelous  woman,  Honora,"  he  told  her. 

She  gazed  at  him,  smiling.  "  I  wonder  if  you  realize 
that  that  is  your  first  compliment  of  our  entire  wedded 
life?  " 

"  Ridiculous,"  he  declared  incredulously. 

"  Isn't  it?  " 

"  I  mean  I'm  complimenting  you  all  the  time.  I 
think " 

"  You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  hear  thoughts,"  she  in 
terrupted. 

321 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

He  silently  debated  another  —  it  was  to  be  about  the 
ribbon  on  her  throat  —  but  decided  against  giving  it 
voice.  Why,  like  the  reasons  for  so  much  else,  he  was 
unable  to  say;  they  all  had  their  root  in  the  blind  sense  of 
the  uncertainty  of  his  situation.  Throughout  the  eve 
ning  his  thoughts  shifted  ceaselessly  from  one  position 
to  another.  This,  he  realized,  could  not  continue  indefi 
nitely;  soon,  from  within  or  out,  Honora  and  himself 
must  be  revealed  to  each  other.  He  was  permeated  by 
the  weariness  of  constant  strain;  the  peace  of  the  past 
months  had  been  destroyed;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  become  an  alien  to  the  serenity  of  the  high,  tranquil 
rooms  and  of  his  wife. 

He  rose  early  the  following  morning,  and  descended 
into  a  rapt  purity  of  sunlight  and  the  ecstatic  whistling 
of  robins.  The  front  door  had  not  been  opened;  and,  as 
he  turned  its  shining  brass  knob,  his  gaze  fell  upon  a 
sheet  of  paper  projecting  below.  Jason  bent,  securing 
it,  and,  with  a  premonition  of  evil,  thrust  the  folded 
scrap  into  his  pocket.  He  turned  through  the  house 
into  the  garden;  and  there  privately  scrutinized  a  half 
sheet  with  a  clumsily  formed,  disguised  writing: 

"  This,"  he  read,  "  will  serve  you  notice  to  move  on. 
Dangerous  customers  are  not  desired  here.  Take  a  sug 
gestion  in  time  and  skip  bad  consequences.  You  can't 
hide  back  of  your  wife's  hoops."  It  was  signed  "  Com 
mittee." 

A  robin  was  thrilling  the  air  with  melody  above  his 
head.  Jason  listened  mechanically  as  the  bird  ended  his 

322 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

song  and  flew  away.  Then  the  realization  of  what  he 
had  found  overwhelmed  him  with  a  strangling  bitter 
ness  :  he,  Jason  Barrage,  had  been  ordered  from  his  birth 
place,  he  had  been  threatened  and  accused  of  hiding  be 
hind  a  woman,  by  the  off-scouring  of  the  alleys  and  rum 
holes.  A  feeling  of  impotence  thrust  its  chilling  edge 
into  the  swelling  heat  of  his  resentment.  He  would 
have  to  stand  like  a  condemned  animal  before  the  im 
pending,  fatal  blow;  he  was  held  motionless,  helpless,  by 
every  circumstance  of  his  life  and  hopes. 

He  crumpled  the  warning  in  a  clenched  hand.  How 
Cottarsport  would  point  and  jeer  at  him,  at  Jason  Bur- 
rage  who  was  Honora  Canderay's  husband,  a  murderer; 
Jason,  who  had  returned  from  California  with  the  gold 
fleece!  It  wasn't  golden,  he  told  himself,  but  stained 
—  a  fleece  dark  with  blood,  tarnished  from  hellish  un- 
happiness,  a  thing  infected  with  immeasurable  miseries. 
Its  edge  had  fallen  on  Olive  Stanes  and  left  her  —  he 
had  passed  her  only  yesterday  —  dry-lipped  and  shrunken 
into  sterile  middle  age.  It  promised  him  only  sorrow, 
and  now  its  influence  was  reaching  up  toward  Honora, 
in  herself  serenely  apart  from  the  muck  and  defilement 
out  of  which  he  thought  he  had  struggled. 

The  sun,  rising  over  the  bright  spring  foliage,  filled  the 
garden  with  sparkling  color.  His  wife,  in  a  filmy  white 
dress,  called  him  to  breakfast.  She  waited  for  him  with 
her  faint  smile,  against  the  cool  interior.  He  went  for 
ward  isolated,  lonely,  in  his  secret  distress. 


323 


GOLD    AND    IRON 


XXI 

This  communication,  like  the  spoken  accusation  of  a 
previous  evening,  was,  apparently,  without  other  conse 
quences.  Jason's  exterior  life  progressed  without  a  devia 
tion  from  its  usual,  smooth  course.  It  was  clear  to  him 
that  no  version  of  the  facts  about  the  killing  of  Eddie 
Lukens  had  yet  spread  in  Cottarsport.  This,  he  decided, 
considering  the  character  of  Thomas  Cast,  the  oblique 
quality  of  his  statements,  was  natural.  He  could  not 
doubt  that  such  public  revelation,  if  threat  and  intimida 
tion  failed,  must  come.  Meanwhile  he  was  victimized 
by  a  growing  uncertainty  —  from  what  direction  would 
the  next  attack  thrust? 

He  smiled  grimly  to  himself  at  the  memory  of  the 
withdrawn  and  secure  aspect  of  the  town  when  he  had 
first  returned  from  the  West.  To  him,  striding  across 
the  hills  from  the'  Dumner  stage,  it  had  resembled  an 
ultimate  haven.  The  seeming  harmony  and  peace  of 
the  grey  fold  of  houses  about  their  placid  harbor  had 
concealed  possibilities  of  debasement  as  low  as  Cali 
fornia's  worst  camps.  Now,  successful,  when  he  had 
looked  for  the  reward  of  his  long  years  of  brutal  toil, 
the  end  of  struggle,  he  was  confronted  by  the  ugliest  sit 
uation  of  his  existence. 

He  was  glad  that  he  had  always  been  a  silent  man,  or 
Honora  would  have  noticed  and  demanded  the  cause 
of  the  moroseness  which  must  have  settled  over  him. 
They  sat  no  longer  before  the  stove  in  the  drawing  room, 
but  on  a  side  porch  that  commanded  an  expanse  of  lawn 

324 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

and  a  high  privet  hedge,  while  he  smoked  morosely  at 
the  inevitable  cheroots,  gloomily  searching  for  a  way 
from  the  difficulty  closing  in  upon  hint. 

Honora  had  been  to  Boston,  and  she  was  describing 
lightly  an  encounter  with  her  aunt,  Herriot  Cozzens.  He 
was  only  half  conscious  of  her  amused  voice.  Clouds  had 
obscured  the  evening  sky,  and  there  was  an  air  of  sus 
pense,  like  that  preceding  a  thunder  storm,  in  the  thicken 
ing  dark.  A  restlessness  filled  Jason  which  he  was  un 
able  to  resist;  and,  with  a  short,  vague  explanation,  he 
rose  and  proceeded  out  upon  the  street.  There,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back  and  head  lowered,  he  wandered 
on,  lost  in  inner  despondence. 

He  turned  into  the  courthouse  square,  dimly  lighted  by 
gas  lamps  at  its  outer  confines,  and  paced  across  the  grass, 
stirring  a  few  wan  fireflies.  It  was  blacker  still  beyond 
the  courthouse.  He  stumbled  slightly,  recovered  himself, 
and  wearily  commenced  a  return  home.  But  he  had 
scarcely  taken  a  step  when  a  figure  closed  in  upon  him, 
materializing  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness.  He  stopped 
and  was  about  to  speak  when  a  violent  blow  from  behind 
grazed  his  head  and  fell  with  a  splintering  impact  on  his 
shoulder.  He  stood  for  a  moment  bewildered  by  the  un 
expected  pain ;  then,  as  he  saw  another  shape,  and  another, 
gather  around  him,  he  came  sharply  to  his  senses.  His 
hand  thrust  into  a  pocket,  but  it  was  empty  —  he  had  laid 
aside  the  derringer  in  Cottarsport. 

His  assailants  grappled  with  him  swiftly,  and  he  swayed 
struggling  and  hitting  out  with  short  blows  in  the  center 
of  a  silent,  vicious  conflict.  A  rough  hard  palm  was 
crushed  against  his  mouth,  a  head  ground  into  his  throat, 

325 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

and  a  heavy,  mucous  breath  of  rum  smote  him.  There  was 
muttered  cursing,  and  low,  disregarded  commands.  A 
cotton  handkerchief,  evidently  used  as  a  mask,  tore  off 
in  Jason's  hand;  strained  voices,  their  caution  lost  in  pas 
sion,  took  unmistakably  the  accents  of  "  Pack  "  Glower 
and  the  Swede,  Steven.  A  thinner  tone  outside  the  swirl 
ing  bodies  cried  low  and  urgent,  "  Get  it  done  with."  A 
fist  was  driven  against  Jason's  side,  leaving  a  sharp, 
stabbing  hurt,  a  heavy  kick  tore  his  thigh.  Then  he  got 
his  fingers  into  a  neck  and  put  in  the  grip  all  the  sinewy 
strength  got  by  long  years  with  a  miner's  pan  and  shovel. 
A  choked  sob  responded,  and  blood  spread  stickily  over  his 
palms. 

It  seemed  to  Jason  Burrage  that  he  was  shaking  himself 
free,  that  he  was  victorious;  with  a  final  supreme  wrench 
he  stood  alone,  breathing  in  gusts.  There  was  a  second's 
imponderable  stillness,  and  then  the  entire  night  appeared 
to  crash  down  upon  his  head  .  .  . 

XXII 

He  thought  it  was  the  flumed  river,  all  their  sum 
mer's  labor,  bursting  over  him.  He  was  whirled 
downward  through  a  swift  course  of  jagged  pains, 
held  under  the  hurtling  water  and  planks  and  stones. 
He  fought,  blind  and  strangled,  but  he  was  soon 
crushed  into  a  supine  nothingness.  Far  below  the 
river  discharged  him:  he  was  lying  beside  a  slaty  bank 
in  which  the  gold  glittered  like  fine  and  countless  fish 
scales.  But  he  couldn't  move,  and  the  bank  flattened  into 
a  plain  under  a  gloomy  ridge,  with  a  camp  of  miners.  He 

326 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

saw  that  it  was  Sunday,  for  the  men  were  all  grouped  be 
fore  the  tents  singing.  There  was  Eddie  Lukens  gravely 
waving  a  hand  to  the  beat  of  the  melody : 

"  *  Don't  you  cry  for  me. 
I'm  going  to  Calaveras 
With  my  wash  bowl  on  my  knee.' " 

It  was  undoubtedly  Eddie,  his  partner,  but  he  had  never 
seen  him  so  white  and  —  why,  he  had  a  hole  over  his  eyel 
Eddie  Lukens  was  dead;  it  wasn't  decent  for  him  to  be 
standing  up,  flapping  his  hands  and  singing.  Jason  bent 
forward  to  remonstrate,  to  persuade  him  to  go  back  — 
back  to  where  the  dead  belonged.  Then  he  remembered, 
but  it  was  too  late :  Eddie  had  him  in  an  iron  clutch,  he 
was  dragging  him,  too,  down. 

Jason  made  a  convulsive  effort  to  escape,  he  threw  back 
his  head,  gasping;  and  saw  Honora,  his  wife,  bending 
over  him.  The  tormenting  illusion  slowly  perished  — 
this  was  Cottarsport  and  not  California,  he  was  back 
again  in  the  East,  the  present,  married  to  Honora  Can- 
deray.  An  astounding  fact,  but  so.  Through  the  window 
of  his  room  he  could  see  the  foliage  of  a  great  horse- 
chestnut  tree  that  stood  by  the  side  walk;  it  was  swelling 
into  flower.  Full  memory  now  flooded  back  upon  him, 
and  with  it  the  realization  that  probably  his  happiness 
was  destroyed. 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  how  much  Honora  knew  of  the 
cause  of  the  assault  upon  him.  She  was  always  like  that 
—  enigmatic.  But,  whatever  she  knew  now,  soon  she 
would  have  to  hear  all.  Even  if  he  wished  to  lie  it  would 
be  impossible  to  fabricate,  maintain,  a  convincing  cover 

327 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

for  what  had  happened.  The  most  superficial,  necessary 
investigation  would  expose  the  story  brought  home  by 
Thomas  Cast. 

The  time  had  come  when  he  must  confide  everything  to 
Honora;  perhaps  she  would  overlook  his  cowardice. 
About  to  address  her,  he  fell  into  a  bottomless  coma,  and  a 
day  passed  before  he  had  gathered  himself  sufficiently  to 
undertake  his  task.  She  was  sitting  facing  him,  her  chair 
by  a  window,  where  her  fingers  were  swiftly  and  smoothly 
occupied.  Her  features  were  a  little  blurred  against  the 
light,  and  —  her  disconcerting  scrutiny  veiled  —  he  felt 
this  to  be  an  assistance. 

"  Those  men  who  broke  me  up,"  he  began  disjointedly, 
surprised  at  the  thin  uncertainty  of  his  voice,  "  I  know 
pretty  well  who  they  are.  Ought  to  get  most  of  them." 

"  We  thought  you  could  say,"  she  rejoined  in  an  even 
tone.  "  Some  guesses  were  made,  but  it  was  better  to 
wait  till  you  could  give  a  statement." 

"  Am  I  badly  hurt,  Honora  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Not  dangerously,"  she  assured  him.  "  You  have 
splendid  powers  of  recuperation." 

"  I'll  have  to  go  on,"  he  added  hurriedly,  "  and  tell 
you  the  rest  —  why  I  was  beaten." 

"  It  would  be  better  not,"  she  stated.  "  You  ought  to 
be  as  calm  as  possible.  It  may  quiet  you,  Jason,  to  hear 
that  I  know  now." 

"  You  know  what  the  town  has  been  saying,"  he  cried 
in  bitter  revolt,  "  what  lies  Thomas  Cast  spread.  You've 
heard  all  the  envy  and  malice  and  drunken  vileness  of 
sots.  It  isn't  right  for  you  to  think  you  know  before  I 
could  speak  a  word  of  defense." 

328 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

"  Not  only  what  the  town  says,  Jason,"  she  replied 
simply,  "  but  the  truth.  Olive  Stanes  told  me." 

"  Then  — "  an  excited  weakness  broke  his  voice  in  a 
sob,  and  Honora  rose,  crossing  the  room  to  his  bed.  "  You 
must  positively  stop  talking  of  this  now,"  she  directed. 
"  If  you  attempt  it  I  shall  go  away  and  send  a  nurse." 

He  was  helpless  against  her  will,  and  sank  into  semi- 
slumberous  wonder.  Honora  knew  all,  Olive  Stanes  had 
told  her.  She  was  as  non-committal,  he  complained  to 
himself,  as  a  wooden  Indian.  She  might  have  excused 
him  without  a  second  thought,  and  it  might  be  that  she 
had  finished  with  him  entirely,  that  she  was  merely  dis 
pensing  a  charity  and  duty;  and,  moving  uneasily,  or 
lying  propped  up  in  a  temporary  release  from  suffering, 
he  would  study  her  every  movement  in  an  endeavor  to  gain 
her  all-important  opinion  of  him  as  he  had  been  lately 
revealed.  It  was  useless;  he  was  always,  Jason  felt,  in 
a  state  of  disturbing  suspense. 

He  determined  to  end  it,  however,  in  spite  of  what 
Honora  had  said,  on  an  afternoon  when  he  was  supported 
down  to  the  street  and  the  chaise.  His  wife  took  her 
place  at  his  side,  and  they  rolled  forward  into  the  ex 
pansive  warmth  of  summer.  Jason  was  impressed  by  the 
sheer  repetition  of  life;  and,  it  seemed  to  him,  that  this 
was  the  greatest  happiness  possible  —  such  a  procession  of 
days  and  drives,  with  Honora. 

Her  throat  rose  delicately  from  ruffled  lace,  circled  by 
a  narrow  black  velvet  band  with  a  clasp  of  remarkable 
diamonds;  and  he  smiled  at  the  memory  of  how  he  had 
once  thought  she  was  marrying  him  for  money.  That 
seemed  years  ago,  but  he  was  no  nearer  the  solution  of  her 

329 


GOLD    AND     IRON 

motive  now  than  then.  Her  slim  hands  were  folded  in 
her  lap  —  how  beautifully  they  were  joined  at  the  wrists, 
her  tapering  fingers  were  like  ivory.  As  he  studied  them 
he  was  startled  at  their  suddenly  meeting  in  a  rigid  clasp, 
the  knuckles  white  and  sharp.  He  looked  up  and  saw 
that  they  were  drawing  near  a  small  group  of  men  outside 
the  apothecary's  shop. 

A  curious  silence  fell  upon  the  latter  as  the  chaise  ap 
proached  :  there  were  the  two  Radlaws,  one  saturnine  and 
bleak,  the  other  greenish,  shattered  by  drugs;  Thomas 
Cast,  Vleet,  the  fishing  schooner's  master,  and  a  casual, 
familiar  passerby.  Jason  Burrage  stared  at  them  with  a 
stony  ominous  countenance,  at  which  Gast  made  a  gesture 
of  combined  insolence  and  uncertainty.  Jason  had  sunk 
back  on  the  cushions  when  he  was  astonished  by  Honora's 
commanding  the  coachman  to  stop.  It  was  evident  that 
she  was  about  to  descend;  he  put  out  a  hand  to  restrain 
her,  but  she  disregarded  him.  His  astonishment  increased 
to  incredulity  and  then  fear;  he  rose  hurriedly,  but  relaxed 
with  a  mutter  of  pain. 

Honora,  a  Canderay,  had  taken  the  carriage  whip  from 
its  holder,  and  was  walking  direct  and  composed  toward 
Thomas  Gast.  She  stopped  a  short  distance  away:  before 
an  exclamation,  a  movement,  was  possible  she  had  swept 
the  thong  of  the  whip  across  Cast's  face.  The  blow  was 
swung  with  force,  and  the  man  faltered,  a  burning  welt 
on  the  pallor  of  his  countenance.  The  coachman  and 
Jason  Burrage  in  the  chaise,  the  men  together  on  the  side 
walk,  seemed  part  of  an  inanimate  group  of  which  the 
only  thing  endowed  with  life  was  the  whip  flickering 
again,  cutting  and  wrapping,  about  a  face. 

330 


THE    DARK    FLEECE 

There  was  a  curiously  ruthless  impersonality  about 
Honora 's  erect  presence,  her  icy  cold  profile.  Memories  of 
old  stories  of  Ithiel  Canderay,  the  necessary,  salt  cruel- 
ness  of  punishment  in  ships,  flashed  through  Jason's 
mind.  An  intolerable  weight  of  time  seemed  to  drag  upon 
him.  Thomas  Gast  gave  a  hoarse  gurgle  and  lurched 
forward,  but  the  relentless  lash  drove  him  back. 

"  You  whisperer !  "  Honora  said  in  her  ringing  voice, 
"you  liar  and  slabbering  coward!  It's  necessary  to  cut 
the  truth  out  of  you.  When  you  talk  again  about  Mr. 
Burrage  and  the  man  he  shot  in  California  don't  leave  out 
the  smallest  detail  of  his  exoneration.  Say  that  he  had 
been  robbed,  the  other  broke  one  of  the  first  laws  of 
miners  and  should  have  been  killed.  You'd  not  have 
done  it,  a  knife  in  the  back  would  be  your  thought,  but 
a  man  would!  " 

She  flung  the  whip  down  on  the  bricks. 

Thomas  Gast  pressed  his  hands  to  his  face,  and  slow 
red  stains  widened  through  his  fingers.  The  apothecary 
stood  transfixed,  his  brother  was  shaking  in  a  febrile  and 
congested  horror.  The  woman  turned  disdainfully, 
moved  to  the  chaise;  the  coachman  descended  and  offered 
his  arm  as  she  mounted  to  the  seat.  The  reins  were 
drawn  and  the  horses  started  forward  in  a  walk. 

Honora's  gaze  was  set,  looking  directly  ahead;  her 
hands,  in  her  lap  of  flowered  muslin,  were  now  relaxed; 
they  gave  an  impression  of  crushing  weariness.  Jason's 
heart  pounded  like  a  forge  hammer;  a  tremendous  realiza 
tion  was  forced  into  his  brain  —  he  need  never  again 
question  why  Honora  had  married  him;  his  doubts  were 
answered,  stopped,  forever.  He  turned  to  her  to  speak  an 

331 


GOLD    AND    IRON 

insignificant  part  of  his  measureless  gratitude,  but  he  was 
choked,  blinded  by  a  passion  of  honor  and  homage. 

Her  gaze  sought  him,  and  there  was  a  faint  tremor 
of  her  lips;  it  grew  into  the  shadow  of  an  ironic  smile. 
Suddenly  it  was  borne  upon  his  new,  acquiescent  serenity 
that  Honora  would  always  be  a  Canderay  for  him,  he 
must  perpetually  think  of  her  in  the  terms  of  his  early 
habit;  she  would  eternally  be  a  little  beyond  him,  a  being 
to  approach,  to  attend,  with  ceremony.  The  memory  and 
sweep  of  all  California,  the  pageant  of  life  he  had  se^n 
on  the  way,  his  own  boasted  success  and  importance, 
faded  before  the  solid  fact  of  Honora's  commanding  her 
itage  in  life,  in  Cottarsport. 


THE  END 


The  following  pages  contain  an  announcement  of 
Mr.  Hergesheimer's 

THE  THREE  BLACK  PENNYS 

which  was  regarded  by  many  critics  as  the  best 
American  novel  published  in  1917. 


THE  THREE   BLACK  PENNYS 

By  Joseph  Hergesheimer 

This  is  the  story  of  three  dark  men  of  the  Penny 
family;  three  men,  and  yet,  in  youth,  middle  and  old 
age,  one  man  and  one  unbroken  narrative.  There  are, 
too,  primarily,  three  women — Ludowika,  a  passionate 
-woman,  Susan  Brundon,  a  spiritual  woman,  and 
Mariana,  in  whom  both  passion  and  spirit  meet  and  are 
interpreted  in  a  smiling  disdain  of  small  prejudices  and 
conventions. 

The  story  proceeds  against  the  developing  back 
ground  of  steel,  from  the  primitive  iron  forges  and 
furnaces  of  the  Province  of  Pennsylvania  to  the 
gigantic  mills  of  today.  Its  course  winds  through  the 
early  forests,  hardly  broken  by  the  scattered  settle 
ments  on  the  fringe  of  America,  through  the  solidifying 
nation  of  1840,  to  the  complex  problems  of  today. 

It  is,  however,  concerned  with  no  purpose  but  that 
of  human  happiness.  In  detail  it  is  the  story  of  the 
incalculable  effects,  through  a  century  and  a  half,  of  a 
heedless  and  overwhelming  love:  there  is  great  pos 
session,  retribution,  and  a  wreath  of  victory. 

"...  He  has  here  fashioned  a  novel  out  of  distinctly 
American  life  on  an  original  pattern,  caught  the  very  air  and 
flavor  of  three  widely  seperated  epochs  of  our  history,  evolved 
living  men  and  women,  and  told  the  story  of  their  lives  with 
skill  and  art  and  understanding.  .  .  .  Whether  as  a  picture  or 
a  criticism  of  life,  Mr.  Hergesheimer's  novel  is  a  notable 
achievement.  Although  dealing  with  three  epochs  so  distant 
each  from  each,  it  is  a  close  woven,  smoothly  flowing  story, 
and  one  hurries  on  from  part  to  part  as  interested  as  if  its 
scenes  were  all  laid  within  a  single  lifetime.  Every  one  of  its 
many  characters  in  each  of  its  divisions,  is  touched  with  life 
and  glows  with  verity.  ...  It  is  a  book  to  arouse  interest, 
inspire  thought,  and  provoke  discussion." — New  York  Times. 

"Mr.  Hergesheimer  is  a  master  in  his  portrayal  of  the  mind 
of  man  and  the  blind,  not-understood,  forces  which  urge  him 
to  what  he  does.  He  has  brought  out  the  haze  which  sur 
rounds  the  consciousness  of  man  very  realistically.  The  book 
is  finely  done,  and  the  three  black  Pennys  live  as  only  rarely 
happens  in  the  characters  of  fiction." — Boston  Transcript. 


"...  a  work  of  fiction  which  all  reviewers  should  hail  as 
of  shining  distinction.  .  .  .  No  one  who  reads  it  can  fail  to 
compare  it  with  Galsworthy's  "The  Dark  Flower,"  but  the 
"Three  Black  Pennys"  is  a  greater  book  in  that  it  takes  in 
more  life.  ...  he  makes  very  vital  at  least  three  mien  and  as 
many  women.  He  does  it  all,  too,  in  a  distinguished  fashion, 
as  one  sure  of  his  grasp  and  touch.  ...  It  commands  the 
reader's  admiration  for  its  artistry  and  unrelaxingly  engages 
his  deeper  sympathies." — Reedy's  Mirror. 

In  "The  Three  Black  Pennys"  the  high  promise  of  "The 
Lay  Anthony"  comes  to  fulfilment.  The  story  is  intelligently 
planned,  cleverly  articulated,  and  written  with  great  skill.  It 
has  style,  distinction,  repose ;  it  suggests,  in  more  than  one 
way,  the  fine  craftsmanship  of  John  Galsworthy.  The  three 
men  who  are  its  chief  figures  stand  out  from  the  page  in  all 
the  colors  of  life  and  the  changing  background  behind  them 
is  washed  in  with  excellent  art.  Altogether,  it  is  a  novel  that 
commands  respect.  Such  sound  writing  is  tragically  rare  in 
America. — H.  L.  Mencken. 

"...  It  is  Hergesheimer  at  his  best.  The  three  pictures 
might  be  hung  on  a  wall,  so  vivid,  veracious  and  evocative  are 
they ;  and  the  finest  artistry  may  be  found  in  the  admirable 
diminuendo  of  the  last  section  of  the  story — the  passing  away 
of  the  Penny  race,  which  decadence  is  conveyed  to  the  reader 
most  artfully  in  the  general  slacking  of  tempo  and  muffling 
of  dynamic  accents,  its  contrast  with  the  buoyancy,  the  virility, 
the  brilliancy  of  the  first  section.  I  have  high  hopes  for  the 
artistic  future  of  the  young  man  from  Pennsylvania.  Pray 
tell  him  so  for  me." — James  Huneker. 

"The  Three  Black  Pennys'  will  prove  one  of  the  most 
stimulating  and  attractive  books  of  several  seasons  past." — 
Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"...  an  altogether  notable  book,  a  novel  that  should  be 
read  by  those  people  who  pride  themselves  on  reading  only  the 
few  best  things  in  fiction." — Chicago  Post. 

"The  book  has  an  epic  quality.  .  .  .  Written  in  a  sytle  that 
is  as  expressive  as  it  is  distinguished." — Indianapolis  News. 

"...  a  remarkable  and  original  tale." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"In  the  writing  there  is  a  quality  of  sombre  beauty  one  finds 
pre-eminently  in  the  pages  of  Joseph  Conrad." — Philadelphia 
Press. 

"Ever  read  anything  of  Joseph  Hergesheimer's  ?  If  not, 
better  begin  at  once,  for  Hergesheimer  is  going  to  attract 
steady  and  accumulative  attention.  'The  Three  Black  Pennys,' 
his  new  novel,  proves  his  right  to  be  seriously  discussed." — 
Chicago  Herald. 


"...  exquisitely  written."— New  York  Globe. 

"He  adopts  an  ambitious  plan,  but  he  develops  his  theme 
with  skill  and  notable  success." — Springfield  Republican. 

"...  a  rare  piece  of  literary  artistry  .  .  .  fully  justifies  a 
strong  faith  in  Mr.  Hergesheimer's  enduring  ability."— New 
York  World. 

"There  is  something  remarkable  in  the  way  in  which  buried 
generations  are  made  to  live  for  the  beholder."— New  York 
Post. 

"It  is  a  story  remarkable  in  its  conception  and  written  with 
that  dignity  and  finish  which  bespeaks  the  artist."— New  Or 
leans  Times-Picayune. 

"There  is  an  imperative  humanness  in  his  character  draw 
ings.  .  .  .  The  book  is  wrought  with  fine  craftsmanship; 
beyond  that  its  teachings  are  healthy  and  sane.  .  .  ." — New 
York  Call. 

"If  a  man  can  sit  in  a  little  Pennsylvania  town  and  write 
such  a  book  as  this,  then  surely  the  day  when  America  can 
challenge  all  literary  Europe  has  arrived.  .  .  .  His  descriptive 
sketches  are  like  the  oil  paintings  of  a  master,  all  colour  and 
life  and  a  flash  of  soul.  His  humor  is  somber,  sardonic,  and 
yet  he  has  an  undercurrent  of  gentleness  and  understand 
ing.  .  .  "—Pittsburgh  Leader. 

$  i. 60  at  all  bookshops 

Published  in  New  York  by 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

INCORPORATED 


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